raindrops faintly laughing as they prance
                                                along the leaves
watercress dancing gently twirling slowly
                                                          in the creek
a deer’s neck softly brushing like a whisper
                                                           against a tree
the sun is rising in the forest with hushed tones
                                                             of red on green
a brusk barista whose soul is wounded wants to cry
                                                               but bravely greets
the first blush of sweet dawn's morning ignites resplendent
                                                     ­                             things unseen
                                 

©2016janetaylor

gestures unnoticed
a crime oh so trivial
yet it hurts the most

Sculptures in the air,
when we inhale and exhale.
While we whisper quiet conversation,
Speak out aloud, talk beyond the pale.

Indentations in the air
swirl in wisps around footsteps
on a busy street.
When we pass or when we greet.

Waves we leave,
as our life's weave
a temporary tapestry,
Woven unconscious
around us.

Some roads you shouldn't go down
Maps use to say that's where dragons would be found
Now they don't, but that doesn't mean
The dragons aren't still there, just unseen
So on some roads you should just turn around

I woke today
In the usual way
Alarms blaring
Clock uncaring
Sleep fleeting
Sun greeting
Eye's blinking
Minutes ticking

Yes everything was the same, the normal routine
But I could feel that cold clutch of something unseen
Today might be different plight
There's something not quite right
Apprehension over me rolled
Something in the wind had gone cold
It's making my soul shiver
Like being submerge in a cold river

Thoughts thickening
Clock ticking
Eyes darting
Fear starting
Breath catching
Life injecting
Uncertainty
I woke today
In the usual way
To find a day
In decay

I am the whisper of a leaf in the breeze

I am the flutter of a butterfly against the white honeysuckle so sweet

I am the gurgle of the flowing river

I am the wind in the willows

I am the waitress picking up coffee cups in the cafe

I am the old woman reading a newspaper against the window

I am the siren of the police car as it drives by

I am the laughter of an old man who twirls his moustache

I am the chatter of a young child

I am the taste of sugar on your tongue

I am the scent of a hundred roses in your nose

I am the sound of plaintive notes on a flute in a land far away

I am the smell of candles and incense in a wooden church

I am the flavour of Marmite on hot buttered toast

I am the feel of the cool granite table against my wrist

I am the refugee who hides in subway tunnels

I am the man who cheers for Arsenal

I am the woman buying anti ageing creams

I am the child kicking stones on the path

I am the smell of rain

I am the taste of freedom

I am the sun upon your skin

I am the honeyed kiss of your lover on the inside of your wrist

I am the taste of violence upon your lips

I am the woman in the red dress and the ebony skin dancing

I am the poet on Speaker’s Corner

I am the woman licking her fingers as she eats

I am the autumn leaves that rustle under your feet

I am the man checking his phone

I am you and you are me and we are a hundred other things

And we are all unseen, forgotten, experienced, reviled, overlooked, and replaceable

And the music plays, the clock ticks, and we look away