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sheila sharpe Aug 2021
A deeper remembrance
not photographs in silver frames
not letters in their familiar hand
not mourning brooches of darkest jet
nor their golden wedding band
not  cut flowers
in vases or on graves
nor  elaborate words
on slate or stone
but, engraved
instead,  a deeper remembrance
that,  as the flight of a snow white bird
in loving hearts has grown
remembrance
sheila sharpe Jun 2020
It has long been a distant dream
this dream of a roof over his head
he used to sit on the worn down pavement
beneath the monument to some long dead
and long forgotten Monarch
and watch the ones he
called the walking dead
who traipsed along the crowded street
all the weight of their greed in
their shining, well shod, feet
A hand would occasionally
toss a single coin or two
into the guitar case by his side
passing City types would  show derision
their  haughty features could not hide
it is still  a distant dream
this dream of somewhere
to call his home
it haunts him even more
as now through the dark
deserted  streets he roams
sheila sharpe Nov 2020
It is a fine, fine line
we use to place
good and evil apart
a fine, fine line
by a quill sharpened to
draw on vellum creamy white
a path hewn between
the road we should take
and the undergrowth of doubt
impenetrable and dense
and dark, so dark and deep
dream on it
draw in your mind
that fine, fine line
slide the golden nib of imagination
across the  parchment of your conscience
free and clear of prejudice
free of ideas preconceived
free of what others will
invariably choose to perceive
draw the fine, fine line
and use it as a guidance
for your continuance
the fine, fine line
free of suggestion’s nuances
draw or paint
with pencil, pen or brush
that fine, fine line
between the music of life
and Death’s deep, undreaming hush
sheila sharpe Nov 2020
Thinking something does not make it true
if it did I would think of this for you
that you may walk, talk, do all for yourself
and be completely and utterly whole

Wanting something does not make it real
otherwise, I would, in my prayers
ask God if he would make a deal

I would ask him to make of you
even more the beautiful person that I know you to be
to be able to speak, to talk, to sit beside, to walk
with your Mother, your brother, your Grandfather
all of your family, and everyone else, and, me

But wanting something does not make it real
and thinking something does make it come true
so all that I can do, is to hope that when you smile
it is because you know just how much we all love you
For a Grandson who is disabled, who cannot walk, talk or look after himself
sheila sharpe Jun 2020
alone
and silently, internally, she screams
for she knows better than to betray her pain
else the neighbours might hear her
might tell him
or he might see her face tear stained
and will take, as always
his anger, his disappointment
with himself
diluted by
a bottle
a glass
a can
and that lack of these
will precipitate once again
the blackened eyes
the inward tears
the bruised skin
all of those outward signs
that she would once again
have to skilfully disguise
so her scream continues silently
stifled to the world outside
dying to a silent
whimper
as she watches the clock
and waits
for his key
to turn almost silently
in the lock
sheila sharpe Aug 2021
As with mosquitos, horseflies
and most bloodsucking parasites
he was spawned in stagnant water
to explore the world of man on evil wings
she had wanted a man who
would love, would care
but soon she would discover
he owned to neither of those things
Rather, he bit into her as would a mosquito
raising a sickness deep within
then as a leech he bled her
dry 'til she was a husk of pallid skin
he spawned in her a ****** dysmorphia
so that she, when he finally left, could only feel
a kind of distorted euphoria
that allowed her to shut herself off from a world
that she saw as a stagnant pool
love gone wrong
sheila sharpe Jun 2020
A river moves through me
guiding and shaping the amoeba in me
that rises from the soul's
ebbing and flowing tides of life
making me human
sheila sharpe Jul 2020
as silken petals the butterflies  flutter
borne upon the gentle wind
colours vibrating
upward soaring
buttercups
violets
daisies
lilac blossoms
fleeing flora given wing
sheila sharpe Aug 2021
A  terrible tapestry woven of empty skies
above a stark and brooding emptied land
sewed with needle and threads of gold
by the Mighty Earth Goddess’ busy hands
who sat and sewed this her winding seam
of orange and gold from creation’s dream
but who possibly now return to talk of this
landscape created from a Goddess’s bliss
a place seldom seen, if not only in the mind
somewhere in a dreamland lost to humankind
sheila sharpe Aug 2020
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
sheila sharpe Feb 2021
Capture me
with your voice
let it to my ears
instil a thrill
let it wash my soul
with its timbre
let its strength
calm my fears
in its tone I hear
all that a voice could
ever contain
the sun’s warmth
the soul’s wash
of the gentle rain
capture me with your voice
hold me
enthrall me, captivate me
thrill me now
sheila sharpe May 2021
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
sheila sharpe Oct 2020
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 Jun 2021
Check the photos on her phone
with your footsteps echo hers
watch through her window
is she really alone?

Listen to her plundered playlist as she mingles
with the nightlife's busy, chattering throng
does it still play your together song
sheila sharpe Feb 17
It is Christmas Eve, the family is asleep, and my bedroom is empty
but for the fleeting image of her little face before my sleepless eyes
I turn back the blankets, and quietly put on my dressing gown
to make my way downstairs where the house in silence lies
My key turns in the lock, the air is cold, an owl hoots, a fox barks
the first snow falls as a thousand icy tears, her face glimmering
her lips smiling, her hair curls under the bows of scarlet ribbon
that hang inside each silently memoried falling flake, and the
night is silent and cold, and my heart within me lies hushed and dark
memories of a little sister's death,
sheila sharpe Nov 2020
close your eyes to nightmares
that pause your breath with fear
as they beat out a fierce
and heavy tattoo in your heart
take their essence upon waking
lay it out, shred the essence of it apart
before your mind’s eye’s awakening
let the morning sun warm
it through and through
then trust and sleep again
and fill your mind with peace
anew
sheila sharpe Nov 2020
coldly, oh so coldly
he told her that she was
no longer the love of his life
but that did not anything explain
as her tears felt like rain
for she still could only relate
to being forever his wife
for she could not shrug off that inescapable fact
that the engine of her love still turned
and that she still held a torch for him
and that the love that she bore for him
still deep within her burned
sheila sharpe May 2021
At the Lake's edge at evening we stood
where emerald lay the grasses
and the sun shone red as blood
where a jay with it's flash of turquoise
sewed a seam at the edge of our view
and crystal swans swam upon
waters of lapis lazuli blue
where a fox in a squirm of russet
slunk to the woodland dim
and black coot chicks with their diamonds of white
paddled mid dun reed rim
then homeward we walked where the pile of stones
in black pyramid loomed on high
and a crescent moon bent its silver horns
in pale homage to indigo sky
sheila sharpe Dec 2020
once it was the bouquets
the dark red velvet roses
the white ghosted Arums
then the chocolates in elaborate
be-ribboned boxes
the creme centres, sugared almonds
the ginger tasting on eager tongue
aah. but those never lasted long
then came the jewellery
necklaces, bracelets, rings,
and those other not so mentionable things
and him, his lips upon hers
his fingers fastening, unfastening
buttons, then stroking, skin to skin
but she was aging
voice and looks no longer appealing
rouge, mascara, henna, greasepaint
non of her imperfections now concealing
neck, shoulders, back, aching
those once nimble fingers
fast becoming thumbs
and all was vanishing
that illusion of perfection
that enviable slice of all that was good
fast becoming
simply
crumbs
the death of a romance
sheila sharpe Nov 2020
shewereasnarrerasanarrer, but with cleavage to die fer
so she dressed in fancy spanks from Marks ‘n Sparks
‘cos she’d gorra job as earned hersen a bucketful of dosh
typing  jobsheets fer the Faktreh’s Senior Clerks
Now one parky Sat’dy neet,
our Peg the padgeowl chanced to meet
an Irish navvy wi a twinkle in ’is eyes
and ‘though Peg judged him as a Yokel
still she took ‘im dahn ‘er local
where they podged theysens
on stout and chips and pies
but Paddy got right larroped
‘as down the jit they galloped
and, chucklin’ sed  “now gisagleg
what’s behind them fancy skanks
did yer gerrem from them Yanks?”
but Peggy only showed a little bit o’ leg
but the navvy cut up ruff, and said “that’s nor ennuff!
I’ll ‘ave the rest – and I’ll ‘ave it right ere!”
but Paddy, tight jobber, never bought a dobber
and as weeks passed it soon became clear
to Paddy, the digger, that Peg’s waist  was gettin’ bigger
so, when Peg said, with a tear and a sigh
“There ain’t no bloomin’ daht
that you’ve got me up the spaht!”
Paddy skanked ‘er
- dahn the jitty - by and by!
A poem in Leicestershire dialect.  Read it out loud to get the effect please and let me know how you find it - oh, and have fun looking up all of the dialect words
sheila sharpe Jul 2020
Early morning
Early morning is where both moon and poet unite
both in seeing and bringing into this world their light


The greedy sun
As the greedy sun peels back orange horizons
the hungry poet licks lips, and savours imagination
sheila sharpe Nov 2020
Days run by like larva
cooled into deep black pools
within my subterranean heart
All I want is for the lockdown to end
so that we are no longer apart
lost love
sheila sharpe Feb 17
Silence, there, where the snow has crystallized,
closing the world to footsteps, tyres on tarmac
flap of towel or sheet on washing line
A sad refrain whispering in the rain’s furtive whine
Once-green spaces magically transformed,
Strange silhouettes, the once familiar trees
Now stand mute sentry in swift polar’d grounds
Where the shining dead men’s diamonds lie scattered all around
In a dark, unsheltered, corner of the park
Where rhododendrons threw squat shadows on the ground
The dead man lay, seeing nothing now through sleet swept eyes
In death he claimed the dead men’s diamonds as a shroud
‘Though his pockets were empty,
His final meal, not the prisoner’s extravagant last request
But a single cup of tea, over-brewed
And a single sandwich, unappetizing, far from fresh
His name to be just a memory on some faded certificate
The frost his shroud, a kindness done by death
For those who his body found
There, where the dead men’s diamonds lie
strewn in derision by skeletal jeweler’s fingers of frost upon the unyielding ground
a tale of pour times - echoes of the streets of London and too many other places
sheila sharpe Aug 2020
Death does not distinguish between the evil and the good
Death knows of no class barriers nor respects any neighborhood
Death does not time by watch or clock when he comes to call
nor cares what weapons he uses to put an end to all

Death wears no distinguishing marks his identity to show
does not live in lofty Mansions nor in basements down below
He may drive a Jaguar or Rolls or a far less desirable car
he may come from close to hand or may travel wide and far

He may carry a gun or sword or bomb it matters not to him
he may by careful planning come or just appear at a whim
he may well appear in designer gear or rags all tattered and torn
he may be full of beard and hair or his head be covered or shorn

He may be young and fair of face, or beautifully formed
or be the skulking stranger disheveled and deformed or
the man at the Barber's, with sharp scissors in his hand
or the man with the laptop quietly studying devilish plans

He may look like the man who long has lived next door
or the one who's just moved into your neighborhood
he may look like a shifty stranger or the man who at
Church or temple or Mosque seems to be doing good

Never trust in Death to appear as you would wish him to
for Death has a thousand disguises to mystify me and you
he's the Universal Sorceror, the man of the changing face
he comes to all, in every land, is known to all and every race

Death may even be a woman, she of the sweetened smile
she of the husky voice who can enthrall you and beguile
Death may even be that youngster with a grenade in hand
Death may appear in your home town or in a distant land

Death has been the final enigma, through time to times anon
and Death shall wait in the wings of the great Theatre of life
Until the great curtains close and all the audience has gone
And all shall look upon Death when their life draws to an end
but shall Death at the first look be repulsed as an enemy
would be - or with open arms be welcomed as a friend?
sheila sharpe Dec 2020
Calm, clear, or stormy
Gray, green or blue
the sea reflects
the feelings that lie
deep within me and you
sheila sharpe Jul 2020
Don't be afraid of being left on the shelf
Trust me, don't be afraid of being left on the shelf
For, if born of nothing but the needy love of self
love itself can swiftly become such a selfish thing
when loneliness and passion together take wing

For thus it is that Love is a complicated *******
for it often seeks out that uncomplicated yearning
and then turns it into a thing of so little substance
signifying nothing, and thoughtless, never learning

it assumes many forms, from starlings whirling swarms
to the sweet bluebirds that soft songs so sweetly sing
and white swans that seem the epitome of love so true
all these avian jesters can make a twitching fool of you

Take advice, do not a perch provide when this creature
seeks out a lonely heart in which to settle, roost and hide
for it will so swiftly spread out its darkly feathered wings
and fill your unsuspecting heart with all manner of things

Its fervid fetid feathers of passion will choke your soul
Its probing beak of jealousy will swiftly break your heart
this winged thing called love is a complicated *******
for, born of passions carrion, it will slowly tear you apart
sheila sharpe Aug 2020
Trust me, don't be afraid of being left on the shelf
For, if born of nothing but the needy love of self
love itself can swiftly become such a selfish thing
when loneliness and passion together take wing

For thus it is that Love is a complicated *******
for it often seeks out that uncomplicated yearning
and then turns it into a thing of so little substance
signifying nothing, and thoughtless, never learning

it assumes many forms, from starlings whirling swarms
to the sweet bluebirds that soft songs so sweetly sing
and white swans that seem the epitome of love so true
all these avian jesters can make a twitching fool of you

Take advice, do not a perch provide when this creature
seeks out a lonely heart in which to settle, roost and hide
for it will so swiftly spread out its darkly feathered wings
and fill your unsuspecting heart with all manner of things

Its fervid fetid feathers of passion will choke your soul
Its probing beak of jealousy will swiftly break your heart
this winged thing called love is a complicated *******
for, born of passions carrion, it will slowly tear you apart
sheila sharpe Oct 2021
You look at me like I'm stupid
ignorant or just plain insane
and try to remember my name
but don't you dare to forget
this sodden hunched old busker
squatting huddled in the rain

I hear you comment on how I smell
of cheap cider, bitter and strong
but don't ignore me
as I sit here with my guitar
on the street corner
amongst the hurrying throng

You, who pass me by
trampling on my old cap
with a single coin in it
looking down on me,
who was once a household name
as you munch on
the sausage roll
the Big Mac the slice of pizza
or drink the espresso or latte
then toss the dregs
at my sockless feet
and light up a ciggie
as you hurry down the street
sheila sharpe Apr 2021
do you ever remember
who once we were
when we were young
what laughter we shared
what songs we sung
you whose hands I hold
grown suddenly old
sheila sharpe Jun 2021
Do you see me soar above you?
do you hear the pulse of my wings
do you see the beauty of my feathers
where the dew of healing clings

Do you taste with me the scent of clouds
that carry a Tempest's rain
Do you feel with me the refugees
who suffer poverty and pain

Do you see the great high mountains
the valley, glen and dale
do you see the vast grey oceans
where the ships in beauty sail

Come with me on my journey
you can do so in your mind
forget the shores of unrest
and leave them far behind

See the iced Antarctica
the bergs that fill the sea
see the mighty Jungles where
nature struggles to roam free

See the blackened Ocean depths
where oil its stain has spilled
see the empty African plateaus
where all wildlife has been killed

Now say for me a heartfelt prayer
take the healing from each wing
lift your voices O my brothers
and my Sisters, come and sing!
Nature
sheila sharpe Jul 2020
Do you see me soar above you?
do you hear the pulse of my wings
do you see the beauty of my feathers
where the dew of healing clings

Do you taste with me the scent of clouds
that carry a Tempest's rain
Do you feel with me the refugees
who suffer poverty and pain

Do you see the great high mountains
the valley, glen, and dale
do you see the vast grey oceans
where the ships in beauty sail

Come with me on my journey
you can do so in your mind
forget the shores of unrest
and leave them far behind

See the iced Antarctica
the bergs that fill the sea
see the mighty Jungles where
nature struggles to roam free

See the blackened Ocean depths
where oil its stain has spilled
see the empty African plateaus
where all wildlife has been killed

Now say for me a heartfelt prayer
take the healing from each wing
lift your voices O my brothers
and my Sisters, come and sing!
Life from an Eagle's viewpoint
sheila sharpe Jul 2020
first glance invites
the lowered eyes
the tentatively touching finger tips
evokes in brush of lips to lips
a whispering exhalation
skin to skin then initiates
a wuthering inhalation
but then is the line crossed
from innocent blush
from fleeting first glance
gathering
to
suffocating
all embracing
obsession
and  possession
sheila sharpe Jul 2020
With her lamp, she lit the faces of the soldiers
with her care and her concern and her love
for Florence Nightingale was simply an angel
sent down to Earth from Heaven above

She did not flinch from those terrible wounds
nor from the wounded ones' gangrenous smell
She simply did what the Lord in Heaven told her
gave of her love,. and cared for them well

She had been born into the Gentry
so knowing only riches and wealth
yet she cared so little for her status
just simply for others welfare and health

Now, this whole dark world over
the symbol of her lamp still glows
for wherever, whenever, one sees a Nurse
one sees the love and dedication they show

In all war torn countries, and amid deep poverty
and where now the dark Corona holds sway
still the light that Florence held glows brightly
so turning the darkest nighttime into day

So remember them, as we fall into sleep each night
so remember them when morning's sun brings light
and hold in your hearts and minds their example
supreme, of courage and of love that shines so bright
sheila sharpe Jul 2020
Too important are the words I long to say to you
for far too long do they lie buried in my heart
so why do they only surface from the lake of
my subconsciousness when we are far apart?

Why do such things stand like crumbling landmarks
that life's time and tide can wash too swiftly away
why can I go and buy you gifts and yet still
find hardest all those words that I need to say?

And why, when those words do erupt like molten magma
why, when my face, my eyes, my desperation betray
do those who should listen, not just stare at me
blank their eyes and turn dismissively away?

I should be allowed to tell of my own heartache
for is it not there in my dreams, and in my very soul
so why when I open the book of my revelations
can you not stay, not listen, not make me whole?

Let me tell you how I feel, let you not my secret
heartaches, my secret dreams deny or steal
fix upon me your eyes, listen to the words I tell
and then, only then will you truly know me well
sheila sharpe Jun 2020
Too important are the words I long to say to you
for far too long do they lie buried in my heart
so why do they only surface from the lake of
my sub consciousness when we are far apart?

Why do such things stand like crumbling landmarks
that life's time and tide can wash too swiftly away
why can I go and buy you gifts and yet still
find hardest all those words that I need to say?

And why, when those words do erupt like molten magma
why, when my face, my eyes, my desperation betray
do those who should listen, not just stare at me
blank their eyes and turn dismissively away?

I should be allowed to tell of my own heartache
for is it not there in my dreams, and in my very soul
so why when I open the book of my revelations
can you not stay, not listen, not make me whole?

Let me tell you how I feel, let you not my secret
heartaches, my secret dreams deny or steal
fix upon me your eyes, listen to the words I tell
and then, only then will you truly know me well
sheila sharpe Jun 2020
Freedom is not gathering in a public place
rather it is the ability to see the empty soul
behind the politician's public face
to stop our ears to Authority's soft cudgel'd speeches
and how to separate the wheat from the chaff
our bumbling so called leaders feed us every day
sheila sharpe Jun 2020
I am hungry for I am empty
since you left me
empty of hope and belief
I know nothing now but uncertainty,
yet everything of heartache, misery and grief
the book of my life has too many pages
dog-eared and damp
with the tears of loneliness
wrinkled by the gnawing of fear
yellowed by the scorching of inclement rages
for peace is a stranger, an alien conception
for I, who desire nothing more
than to feel full of relief
sheila sharpe May 2021
When the day ends and the sun sets
in glowing sky above a gilded sea
if we were rich you and I, my darling
this is where I would want us to be
away from this dark world
where sometimes it seems
there are tatters of broken dreams
like baleful banners unfurled
so take me into your arms my darling
and love me, wipe my eyes
and subdue my sighs
and let us lie together beneath
these golden skies
sheila sharpe Feb 2021
Hands reach out
digits intertwining
flicking upon the mind's
dark consoles of thought
desperately imploring
searching for answers
needing to express and explore
wanting a hands-on approach
to the endless dilemmas of life
sheila sharpe Jul 2020
High on the swift swaying swing, I flutteringly fly
am I bird or wandering white-winged butterfly?
Do you not ponder upon just what it is you see
Do I not cause you to heave a wondering sigh?

Teasingly turning, twisting through the air I fly
and thus all moribund earthly origins do I defy
I am of mere humble, too human form no more
transformed into an air-born angel swift to soar
sheila sharpe Dec 2020
His brown eyes and my blue eyes met
in recognition  across expanse of grass
smile invited smile and even the fairground's
raucous music paused for a heartbeat's while
as time was suspended and swing boats
seemed to stop upon the upward swing, and
in my heart a flock of butterflies took wing

The sun pierced that young heart unsure as yet
of love and it's challenges that must be met
and awakened in me a dream of something
as full of promise as his smile wide and warm
yet fleeting as butterflies in shimmering swarm

And I felt as if a glistening pearl was formed and
held in the as yet unfathomed ocean of my soul
and all that day carried it around as if in a crystal glass
wanting, needing, to keep it forever untarnished and whole
sheila sharpe Jul 2020
reserved
Her heart gaped open
for all the world to see
whilst his conscience
remained as firmly closed
as an unused rusty zip
sheila sharpe Feb 17
You are a flower of many names
Woodbine twisting around bright haws
Irish Vine with blarneyed whispers of sweet scent
Honey bind and Goats leaf
and Faerie Trumpets with a call to reassure
that steadfast in love shall admirers be
I shall welcome you into my humble home
that you might bring gold into my coffers
and into my garden to give protection from evil
In my hair shall I wear a wreath of your florets
that I might of my future true love dream
around my doors to cultivate good fortune
your tendrils I will surely wrap
my children to be shall bite off your flower ends
thirsty as they will be for drops of your honeyed nectar
come, let me bind you into ropes for pack ponies
to carry sweet cargoes of you to colonise
all of the fast fading and forsaken hedgerows
my Father and my Mother forbade me
to bring you into my Garrett bedroom fearing that
your heady perfume might young untested passions ignite
but now I will pluck of your sweetness
and will your honeyed sweetness into my home invite
to make an elixir for the rasped throats of Preachers and such
I will seep you in fragrant oil warm and soothe coldness with you
Now I beg of you to bring all that you own to me
sheila sharpe May 2021
I offer myself as willing prey
catch me with
silken words
and in your web
of lasting love entrap me
sheila sharpe Jun 2020
I fall
down through the dark mists of grief
it's shadows closing about me
extending my arms to memories
I need now to be corporeal
to hold me close
to stay my fall
to restore all
that is lost
that is past
with no conditions
let me land
on Terra Firma
not on the stormy waves
of heartache
sheila sharpe Dec 2020
I just need to kick over the traces
break the bank place a big bet
and win a ** fortune on the races
I want to break a lifetime's habits
stop keeping to every rule
stop the Universe
and all that's in it
for taking me for a law-abiding fool
I want to stop seeing that pile of washing to be done
I want to stop being straight-laced
and start to have some fun!
rebellion!
sheila sharpe Oct 2020
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
sheila sharpe Jul 2020
I stare at you through the foliage of everyday life
the thorns, the blossoms, the moss that carpets all
I am the wild thing that lives in every girl and woman
I have bloomed throughout the years of heartache
of happiness, of all that enriches the world and self
sheila sharpe Nov 2020
Older than time is
the lullaby of the forests
it sings with a song that lulls
the weary traveller into a waking sleep
that feeds the soul and refreshes the tired mind
in a cadence soothing, satisfying, deep
it is a lullaby sung by every rustling leaf
by every tiny bird that softly sings
ah, and if the traveller could lay
their weary head upon the grass
so would their dreams take wing
they would drift into a reverie
that mere sleep would surpass
it is a lullaby that echoes
in tiny feet that softly patter
through the gloaming
in every wing that beats a soft refrain
in every sway of every branch caught
by the evening breeze
in every drop of softly falling rain
it is a lullaby far older than time
from way before this world was just a word
it is the lullaby that echoes through
the centuries
and shall, whilst this world lives
be ever heard
sheila sharpe Jun 2021
Just maybe darkness is better than light
for they, the wild and animate ghouls
that desire your soul merely stalk
and softly growl but do not bite
surely darkness is better than light
being a shield that you can hide behind
a barrier beyond which the anxious onlookers
cannot peer, and so pierce, your clouded mind
surely darkness is better than light
light that too much reveals
light that shows the stains of life
that darkness so well conceals
they are multitude those night things
the arachnid spinning a web of dark comfort
the moth that shreds the brains dead cells
with softly soothing wings
the centipede sweeping away negative thoughts with swift legs
the unseen bird that cries, that for peace and comfort begs
surely darkness is better than light
a harsh and unforgiving light
where the stranded vessel carrying your dreams
is forever fixed in a glacial world of wicked white
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