Rhymed and metered
Or free as a waterfall
Abstract or lucid
Poetry - it’s loved by us all

Rich in images
Or to the point - blunt
Not so verbose
Or lined with puns

We have our own styles
Rambling or terse
Unique and different
Truly di -verse

Blossoms tucked in my hair
Stars in shining eyes 
I turn my face up to heaven 
I smile at raven skies 

Moonlight bathes a sleepy world 
There's moon dust on the skin 
Drenched in milk and cream 
Blooms are a happy pink 

Perhaps a wish I'll make this night 
On a sliver of fallen lashes 
Tonight is a night of magic blue 
Streaked with silver sashes 

I'll sit on clouds of violet 
Down they’ll come for me 
Hitch a ride to a silver star 
And be with the fairies 

The wind will run by my side 
Oh, she will hum a song 
With her I will fly high 
And wake a drowsy  dawn 

I'll run my fingers through the air 
For a rainbow I will crave 
From the dark grey rippling crested sea
I'll pull out a crescent wave

I'll go round stars that burn so bright 
Play fiddle with sterling beams 
Kiss a wish on a resting  brow
And sprinkle happy dreams 

I'll stop for breath on snow clad peaks
Breathe in their pearly glow
Tumble down a curving ***** 
And make angels in the snow

And then back on a  cloud of violet 
The  wind shall whistle her tune 
With dreams like lanterns in my eyes 
I'll be dancing with the moon

Tonight I'll spin on my toes  
Without a thought or care 
For I'll ride to a twinkling silver star 
With blossoms in my hair

In a moment,
things change
Rearrange
Leaving us yearning
for a past
That is gone
That plays like an old,
much-loved song
A haunting melody.


Today is not the same as yesterday
nor will tomorrow be
And this is
how life is
For you and me

It’s
Sweet and bitter
Beautiful and aching
And utterly
heartbreaking

Yet the human spirit
In crevices, finds a flower
Revels in the rainbow after a shower
Holds on to the sun peering through clouds.
Catches a smile in a crowd —
I guess this is what we are about

They say that poetry doesn’t sell.

But then is poetry ever on sale?
Is poetry a commodity?
Is happiness on sale?
Is hope on sale? Is love on sale?

A poem could be a chunk of reality. Ramblings of a broken heart. A slice of humour. A beacon of light.

In the darkest of times, I have found poems that in a few words, beam rays of sunshine. That soothe unknown aches and pains. That hold my hand and pull me up. Bit by bit.

I may remain the proverbial ‘poor’ poet with large empty pockets. But poetry enriches me.

It casts a spell.  
So what if poetry doesn’t sell?

I would be summer to your heart
And ochre autumn to colour days
Winter too, in all her mystic beauty
And spring in her glorious array

I would be the cool summer rain
That gently falls from an open sky
Or the winter's welcome mellow sun
That warms a face with a smile

I would be too, the heady breeze
That dances and sings melodies
The joy of all seasons that lifts the heart
And shields life neath its canopy



Inspired by -
Edna St. Vincent Millay -I know I am but summer to your heart.

He floats in the air,
Swaying, prancing,
Twirled by the breeze,
Moving, dancing.
A dance in the air,
On hidden wings,
In love with the music,
Of the wind.
Graceful moves,
A performance brief,
Gently swirling,
The falling leaf.
For a moment on the ground,
He rests and stays,
Then another breath of wind
And swept away!
Flitting, floating,
Up and down,
Slowly in a ring,
Around and around.
Choreographed by the breeze,
In delight once more,
The breeze and the leaf . . .
The dance, encore!

Carousel of clouds,
Tufts of white in a blue sky,
Merrily go round,
Up — down—up celebrating,
The carnival of morning.