it was a hundred miles away
from my thoughts to your soul
it was as cold as december
where should i possibly
go?
if
it's
a dream
or a fantasy
or could it be
real?

i
tried
to
wake up
on my own feet
but
i
feel so heavy
my mind
is as blank
as a paper
without
written back from your
thoughts.
It is kind of a mess, sometimes.
it doesn't follow
patterns nor rules to crash.
i was hoping
till late at night
that you'll remember me
perhaps,
will
you
think
of
me?

A poem is built with sounds
Liberally littered with alliteration
Rhyming reason
Aspiring assonance
Up metaphorical mountains.

Each letter plays its part.
A cast of cascading chords
Making mystical music
For the discerning ear.

Operatic musicals from the Muse:
A crescendo of noise
Or sometimes
Whispers in the winnowing wind.

I write because I must,
Because I need to
In answer to
The Call.

Paul Butters

jumping
hopping
bounding
springing
kangaroos are jumping and hopping high
their bounding springing touches the sky

Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Myriad summer colours of an abstract view,
Curling up between and under the far away.

I’m lost in the mix, a melting *** full of play,
My own shade of Dark, a subtle blended hue,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.

Beautiful retro splendour, asking me to stay,
Flower in her hair, white petals, edged blue,
Curling up between and under the far away.

Smiling, she raises my soul from feet of clay,
Dark and Stormy cocktail easing me through,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day.

Cuban rhythm dancers give a riotous display,
Bohemian sight and sound unleashed on cue,
Curling up between and under the far away.

We sample dreams from an enchanted tray,
Allowing hearts, minds, and spirits to renew,
Thrumming life-threads are weaving the day,
Curling up between and under the far away.

©Paul M Chafer 2015