Blackbird

Blackbird
Beautiful Blackbird,
Take heart, take flight,
Leaving all the hurt behind,
Upon the wing, you can sing,
Allowing troubles to unwind.

Blackbird
Precious Blackbird,
Be strong, be brave,
Be unafraid, just to fight,
Forever free, you shall see,
Blue skies, clear and bright.

Blackbird
Sweet Blackbird,
Know faith, know hope,
Sharing dreams, everyday,
Knowing inside, no need to hide,
Trust guiding you, all the way.

© Paul Chafer 2014

Umbrellas, umbrellas, holding off the rain.
Sheltering all from the sky’s falling tears.
A common bareheaded woman with a basket,
Becomes the object of one man's inquiring gaze.
What protects her from his illicit intentions?
His wealth from exploiting her poverty?
She possesses no umbrella against the rain.
No shield against his shower of false affections.
And oblivious; a little girl with toy hoop looks on.
A questioning sadness in her dark, innocent, eyes.
Unconcerned curiosity, observing the world’s corruption.
And yet, and yet: unaware of her own, future vulnerability.

© Paul Chafer 2014

The Old Giant is finally dead,
I heard the battle raging,
Incessant howling, shrieking, wailing,
Rending of limbs, such screeching,
Unassuaged horror filling my ears,
Please, make it stop, please.

But, it did not stop, no,
And the Old Giant fought bravely,
Before finally crashing to earth,
A seasoned campaigner, yes,
Victor of many a titanic struggle,
Before defeat reared its ugly head.

He’d stood proudly, scarred, twisted,
It took a mighty foe to defeat him,
To deal relentless heart-splitting blows,
As I observe him, a tear wells, escapes,
Splashes delicately onto his splayed trunk,
Instantly absorbed by golden-white wood.

Then, in a tangle of broken branches,
Bathed in a shaft of canopy-filtered sunlight,
I spy a slender sapling, knee high,
And I know an ancient legacy continues,
So sad, but life flourishes, even though,
The Old Giant is finally dead.

© Paul Chafer 2014

Faces, shiny faces
in a shiny magazine.
Face of a gypsy girl,
the face of a queen.
Face of a princess
regal and fair.
Face of a rich girl
caught in the glare.
Face of a film star
captured in a dream.
Face of a model with
skin smoothing cream.
Faces on beaches
soaking up the sun.
Face of a beauty with
the potential to stun.
Faces draped with jewellery
and make-up to ****.
Alluring expressions
intended to thrill.
Observe ****** glamour,
young fresh and bright.
Drown in the images
reflecting your delight.
Absorb the pretty faces
of perfect colour tone.
Identity assimilation
won't leave you alone.
Forever trapped by faces
in a faceless prison.
Individuality lost in
a nightmare vision.
Faces commanding
the commodities of life.
The looting of pockets
both legal and rife.
Faces of power corrupted
through and through.
Keep checking out the faces
who are checking up on you.

© Paul Chafer 2014

Writing,
Scribbling down,
Such choices we make,
Edging the sliding doors of life,
Running, walking, or turning away,
How odd, these bold decisions,
Life-changing options,
Not bold at all, taken on a whim,
And yet, yet, they guide, hmm,
Saturating our souls, hearts, our minds,
With more permanence than we know,
Can ever know, for who can know,
What will become of us; any of us?
Are we indelibly tattooed, all of us?
Perhaps, and fate and destiny are dust,
Lives become intertwined, tightly bound,
Inextricably linked, so, so tight,
Through little more than pen and ink,
And on we flow, downstream,
Not, going with the flow, no,
Only ‘dead-fish’ go with the flow,
But ‘current drifting’ observing,
Before plunging beneath the surface,
Tugging the legs of the serene swan,
Playfully, cajolingly, teasingly,
Before emerging, drying off,
Thinking, choosing, acting,
Scribbling down,
Writing.

© Paul Chafer 2014

My poem was inspired by the poem below by Amanda FH.

We Are Art

The choices we make
The life-changing ones
Are indelibly etched on our hearts and souls and skin.
Every decision is a making, a changing,
I am tattooed
And so are you.
Let's compare our pictures
And tell each other stories.
Make notes on me
I'm still a choice
Waiting to be branded
Let your ink flow.

By the shores of the Dry-sea.
Beyond salt-crusted sands,
In deep, deep, caves,
You will find dragons.
Long ago, in ages past,
Men and women were selected,
An honour to ride these great beasts.
Winged creatures of giant stature,
Sharp of tooth and talon.
Then foolishly, the dragon-riders fought.
The battles, ****** and deadly,
Swooped across scorched skies.
Then the dragons took their leave,
And burrowed deep into the earth,
Where they slept away the centuries.
Occasionally one would surface,
In a lake, a fjord or a loch,
Emerging by secret ways,
To see if mankind still made war.
Until at last, mankind has long gone.
The Earth is dry: blisteringly hot.
Perfect for dragons to bask,
Upon the salt-crusted sands,
By the shores of the Dry-sea.

© Paul Chafer 2014

You,
Yes you,
I’m talking to you,
You know I want you,
No, not want, but really need,
Need to feel skin beneath my lips,
Smell your hair while kissing your neck,
My teeth teasing on your shoulder, tasting,
My hands on your waist, caressing, holding,
Pulling you close, ah, swaying, rocking gently
Deep breaths, dizziness, aching, till we kiss,
What then, you might ask, what indeed,
Will senses slip away, hmm, perhaps,
Reason becoming untethered, yes,
Breaking from its moorings, yes,
An explosion of delight, hot,
Raw passion, dark desire,
Riot of ****** discovery,
Hands touching, feeling,
Sensual lips exploring,
Drinking in pleasure,
Bodies now writhing,
Inhibitions crumbling,
Heat coursing, racing,
Until we are lost, yes,
Two becoming one,
Mind, body soul,
Falling, falling, ah,
Rising, drifting, hmm,
Sighing, escaping, sated,
More, needing more,
I’m talking to you,
Yes you,
You.

© Paul Chafer 2014