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.

No ode for you, periwinkles
No exalted verse or prose
No lover's gift you will be
Unlike the regal rose
Not placed in summer bouquets
In vases - never seen
Nor gracing dark tresses
Nor found in floats of dreams
Yet sweet you are to me
Happy in blue and white
With your merry little faces
Like fairies and lithe sprites.

She sells flowers in little bunches,
Sweet fragrances that please,
Delicate sepals of life,
That softly speak.

Bouquets of living colours,
Petals of inspiration,
Roses, chrysanthemums,
Daisies, carnations.
Accent blossoms, gerberas,
Lilies smiling in myriad hues,
Sunflowers a darling yellow,
Vibrant orchids in splendour blue.

With her touch, beauty breathes,
Glorious blossoms thrive,
Delicately arranged,
Floral expressions come alive.

For new love that slowly blooms,
For confessions yet to be said,
The finest of her finest,
She ribbons roses dark rich red.

Fond good health thoughts,
Through florals expressed,
She’ll wrap with gentle care,
With love’s tenderness impress.

She’ll weave wreathes and garlands,
Blends of wistful white, blues, pinks,
For memories left behind,
Now distant imprints.

In sweet scents, she colours days, months, years,
Walks alone each night when she is done,
Back home, no florid fragrance fills her senses,
To colour her world there is no one.

I have boxes of memories
Well-marked and stored
And I am adding new ones
So that there are many more
Though life is not a rainbow
Nor is there sunshine all the way
I can still laugh and smile
And box a memory every day