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you sent me gifts
you sent me flowers
your lips kissed me
your arms held me
but still, I could not see

Perhaps my eyes were dimmed
perhaps, my ears were stopped
perhaps the words you spoke
dropped
into the dark well that was my heart

Whatever the reason,
somehow, I could not know
somehow, I could not feel
Somehow the smiles
that you gave to me were
cold to my soul
and so was love,
like acid aspic congealed

Now at last, too late I realise
that love should be felt
without gifts, without roses
without smiles and kisses
just, simply, felt,
and without feelings, I never knew
what I now am missing
not realising what love was
There, in those final moments
I could say at last all of the things
that I could not say before
His eyes were closed,
his chest unmoving so it seemed
I could not tell whether he heard me
whether or not he listened
or simply dreamed

Gone was the smile that often
around his mouth would play
gone was the twinkle in his eye
gone the long words he'd often,
teasingly, whilst chuckling, say.

I had not known him for so many years
he was just a word in a dictionary
Father, Dad, Papa, call him what one may
I never really knew him
there were few chances
yes, there had been cards, letters
but sometimes he seemed
like just another person
distant, and far, too far, away

But, years later, I really got to know
this man, my Father,
the one I so resembled
as my Mother would often say
I learned that he, like me, loved words
how, again like me, he loved drawing
how, with puzzles, with riddles
he would often play

And, in those final moments
as he slipped into that distant, far off land
that was when I kissed him on his forehead
and held, for the first and final time
his flaccid, for once penless, hand
for my Father
sheila sharpe Oct 14
Upon the face of blue-green
globe in endless, unfelt spin
amid a vast and still expanding space
life unfolds in movement
crawling, flying, swimming
sinuous, slow or fast in
terms of grace and pace

Mountains soar to pierce
the endless skies of storm or calm
where clouds mist pinnacles
of green, of fiery red, or white
Sun warms by day, then stars
in frosted wonder grace
with diamonds the velvet night

Crawling creatures, the still earth
in endless movement carpet
Flying creatures fill the skies
with hum and swish of beating wing
and every swimming creature
stirs the fathomed depths
and makes the Sailor's heart
with longing sing

And in the crown that graces all of Earth
a treasure trove of jewels in splendour lie
blossoms that in shape and form and colour
fill with awe and wonder heart and eye

Such is Nature, realm of the great Creator
Realm of the Artist who with brush unseen
paints the world with red, blue, gold and silver
orange, yellow, white and blue and green
Nature; the world
sheila sharpe Oct 14
Words are crimson threads spun by my pen
needling my woolly soul for expression,
each a stitch in Life's tapestry
my thoughts long and steely bodkins
I scatter words as sharp and shining pins
each sufficient to raise red upon
the flaccid fabric of empty minds
pinning ideas, often controversially
averse to neither comment nor complaint
I am a human wheel of spin,
pricking consciousness
threading with thought empty consciences
why I write
sheila sharpe Oct 14
Chaos came creeping into the unsuspecting world
Invisible, except beneath the microscope's lens
borne upon the breath of old injustices, and rage
a crazed creature creeping out of Nature's cage

No-one saw the escape, no-one suspected
no-one could see its spiked and viperish visage
born coldly upon a sneeze, a cough, a breath
such was the fetid face of this unseen death

No continent, powerful, wealthy, mighty, rich or poor
witnessed chaos come unbidden through the door
but it is here, and continents and countries fall apart
Experts no protection can from their theories impart

Chaos is not always the detonation of bombs or guns
nor is it born in the blinding blazing of exploding suns
chaos is here always, watching and waiting to pounce
An unseen Terrorist that does not its arrival announce
thoughts on the Pandemic
sheila sharpe Oct 14
The Country that promised
equality, opportunity
free passage given
and hope to all who entered there
now trampled by unfulfilled dreams
a lack of understanding
inequality left them trampled underfoot
necks knelt upon
hands shackled
that once were willing
the plantations echoed in a thousand
down-trodden neighborhoods
the wrong side of the tracks
downtown around every corner
promises broken
the burned spoons
the silver foil
the knives
the spilled blood
This was
the Land of the Free
Thoughts on the U.S.A.
sheila sharpe Aug 31
Brush with your lips
my questing finger tips
hold my breath
in a pulse of your heart
hear my voice in the echoes
of the summer scented breeze
and so never let us part
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