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sheila sharpe Aug 31
She was his
her eyes fixed upon his needs
expressed in his face
she was his
transfixed
her first glance upon awakening
her last glance before uneasy sleep
She was his
his voice enslaving her
the soft wheedling
the ugly commands disguised
She was his
his hands caressing
his fingers raking her soft, soft skin
She was his
his mind enclosing
enrapturing
her soul
deep within
sheila sharpe Aug 31
Copper leaves, the colour of old coins
scatter in mown emerald grass

Ashy sky streaked with vermillion
gives warning of a coming storm

Strewn hazelnut shells betray the
vagabond squirrel's hunger on the footpath

A sparrow camouflages itself
becoming a part of lilac bush bark

What seems at first glance a twig is
a slug resurrected by early morning rain

A perfectly prismatic necklace of crystals
spangles the empty washing line

Daisy sequins grace the Garden's
gilded gown of dewy grass

Sleepy cat awakes, to become death incarnate
stalking birds on soft and stealthy paws

Whispy white clouds drift cotton-like
on the grey altar-cloth of the horizon

And a solitary mouse erupts from earth burrow
to scurry across my feet
sheila sharpe Aug 31
The sandstorm of desperation
blows through my arid heart
tearing my future's longed for oasis apart
my heartbeats are the drumming
of countless Nomads' feet
all that I need is a well
from which my thirst to quench
give me love, give me
that well that is your heart
full of love deep and sweet
sheila sharpe Aug 31
The door shut inside my heart
the windows closed inside my soul
and the mist of betrayal gathered
behind each tear-filled eye
your last words echoed
down the darkened corridors of my mind
for you shut that door, you closed that window
you destroyed all my future
and yet you forgot to say
"Goodbye"
sheila sharpe Aug 26
That sleep from which our loved ones do not wake
That drift into nothingness, that silence everlasting
Death takes, and leaves a mere shadow of each self
for us to place words in Memorium or urn upon shelf

An urn that, even if emptied of that ash
into a blaze in home hearth grate
would not as a glorious phoenix
our lost loved ones reincarnate

That sleep from which our loved ones do not wake
that drift into nothingness, that silence everlasting
that Death in all its arrogance our loved ones
for its own perverse satisfaction takes
just lines that came into my mind
sheila sharpe Aug 26
The onlooker somehow fears this billowing
almost a smoke erupting from ancient landscapes
a smoke that a voice possesses
a voice that it owns, and uses to persuade,
sears into the mind with something
insubstantial yet tangible at its centre
as of a dark blaze suddenly ignited
shifting, drifting into a murderous haze
morphing into half-imagined shapes and shades
written after watching an Arts programme about the life of Ted Hughes, where the opening shots were of starlings swirling and whirling about
sheila sharpe Aug 18
Endless thinking..thinking.. thinking.. thinking..  thinking
******, this is how thinking can far, far, too often feel
as if one's poor head is spinning around and around
or as if one's a poor dizzy gerbil imprisoned in a wheel
it's as if one's poor old mind is far too full of thoughts
with far more crowding in on it than they really ought
And, why, oh why, to further blight one's piteous plight
does thinking far too often plague one very late at night
for when one's about to drop off into much-needed sleep
come silly sneaky little thoughts suggestive and too deep
That's why  if  I am  struggling to settle down late at night
I save myself from going crazy and lots of poems write!
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