Turn back the clocks
Countless ears who heard the restless call of spring
Will never dance to winters tune
The hands of time are stilled
For them the clock has stopped
On this year
And all others
This dying year
Has become a year of dying
Thoughts are our feathers
They lift imagination
Then they blow away
I am having a rough time
In my head it's shut down season
for which there is no reason
and certainly no rhyme!
A bit jaded-I'm sure it will all come back
The people in my head
All speak with different voices
I set them free in ink
and I make all their choices!
Each successive generation
Has punched that button
It isn’t red
It is quite round
And it’s there
Just look around
It fires doomsday
That elephant in all our rooms-day
We need to stop pushing
We need to start thinking
The oceans are filthy
The ice caps are shrinking
We all own the button
It's big and it's blue
It's everyones planet
and that includes you!
A graceful fragile thing devoid of earthly care
Which sings and sets the sky alight
On wings so light they skim the air
Birds are truly free spirits
I have laid down my life as I laid down my gun
the battle is over
I don't know who won
their side our side
does anyone care when it's all said and done?
Long ago and far away
at very the end of the hardest day
when silence falls on the blood red, mud red, grass
will anyone remember what came to pass?
Young men die and old men weep
for comrades lost and the memories they keep
hugged to themselves till their time is done
a long life haunted by the shadow of the gun.
I have no name
war took it from me
a symbol, instead of the lad I used to be
It is 100 years since the unknown soldier was put in his tomb.
The thin bare bones of a silence that was
Shattered calm, a mirror cracked
Snapped underfoot like a plastic toy
Smashed, a fragile thing destroyed
Beauty broken by a careless word!
Some people can't understand the beauty of a silent moment!
Flowers in winter
Bright children out in the cold
Candles in the dark
I love a flower in winter-colour against the grey
I do not know why
my words are elusive and shy
They wouldn't say
why they refuse to play
I guess I am on my own today
I miss my words
See your face in standing water
it reflects back the truth
No airbrushes in nature
no photoshop filters
you get what you get
Staring into the clear and glassy depths, right to the bottom
You think you can see through it, but really it sees through you!
A longer poem inspired by the Haiku-there is more than one kind of reflection!
Pond with no ripples
A mirror for our faces
Reflects only truth
The shapes of sleep
Day smoke that flows throughout our waking hours
released to tease and twist our darkling thoughts to landscapes, cities of the quiet mind
Shadow towers defined by nothing more than fancy and a little fact
the unassuming act of pressing day on night
Unconscious distant learning stoked by fear to feed and keep its belly still, and a little yearning when we need it
Our treasures taken from that mental box we keep
unlocked, explored and plundered deep
The grey and somewhat shop - worn curtains, covering the shapes of sleep
A thoughtscrape poem!
Walk in a garden
Tending flowers costs us time
The love is for free
We hunger when the grey doubt wolves are prowling around our doors, sniffing at the latches as we crouch inside
Our ears are stuffed with hopeful thoughts because their song is one of want and we cannot ignore their dreadful music
The newly ******, searching for a light that won't be found
Chasing every spark, in search of faint salvation for our fragile shrunken world but mostly for ourselves
Stitched with good time memories and thoughts of better days to come
Thrown shadows, lit large on walls that once we thought were strong have lost their charm and turned from fortress into prison where we hold the keys to melted locks
Ravening, for days not so long passed when we were free to live in this tattered world of haves and have nots, when all are hungry the howling begins
In the minds attic
Poets paint their pictures with words
Using thought for a brush
Not a Haiku!
Peace is an early morning
Dare you break the silence with your footsteps on the grass
Spiders weaving cobwebs case their industry and listen to the nothing, dewdrop heavy
Rabbits out for early breakfast halt their chewing mouths and wait in expectation
Frozen cracking trees still their restless branches for a while and the river runs slow, no trickling streams to signify its presence
Trout swim in the shallows
Gentle watchers of the newborn day
Mayflies live for hours
Fitting life into a day
What if it's raining?
Hungry under the surface
Stepping stones with teeth
A metaphor for life-avoid snappy rocks!
Hard to watch a flame
Flicker as the breeze begins
Fighting for its light
Hard to watch a good friend fighting a losing battle with cancer
A sky of painted rain from custard yellow clouds, fell beyond my gallery window glass.
The grass a silken thread of cinnamon fire, vermillion and orange tea brewed strong and hot, which ran to choppy rivers damson plum and vintage flowing wine, stretched far beyond my own imagining
to boiling seas of unknown hue.
Did a morning ever dawn which held such colour and such light, If so it isn’t one I ever knew!
I wondered what it would be like to wake up in an abstract painting
The most twisted oaks
Stand strong and weather a storm
When younger trees fall
If you believed the media youth wins every time. How do you think these oldies got to be so old?
If only I had wings to fly
The sky would not hold me
I would be so much more
Than a bird who could swoop and soar, and twist and dive
Alive, at one with spirits of the air
To drop each care
And watch it fall, like silent drifting feathers to the ground
Could there be a peace more sacred and profound
Teeth in jaws that snap
Beyond the tongue that twists and winds
The trap that binds you to your word
Once beyond those tombstone markers to the world
All hope is lost for yet another lie uncurled
To wind itself like smoke
To choke and wrap around your slender throat
To make you wish you never spoke a single scarlet word
And those you hurt had never even heard!
On a blue Sunday
Grey rain seeks out my window
White noise fills my head
A plastic orange
Is hollow and has no taste
It is just for show
I just had to do it!
I stretch out my arms
To the bird in the tree
The one that sings in the heart of me
I channel the sun, the light that heals
It cuts me open and soon reveals
The flesh within, a beating heart
The core of me, let mending start!
Grow up tall and straight
Bend with the prevailing wind
Don't forget your roots
A whole made of many parts
Delicate and beautiful
It can change the world!
Sew balance and harmony
Tall peace flowers grow
Silence has a voice
Listeners hear it whisper
Talkers hear themselves
Empty vessels make the most noise
Will cast the darkest shadow
Stunting all new growth
Birdsong at sunrise
Rising sweet on the clear air
A hymn of morning
Not land or water
Sacred to our ancestors
Gateway between worlds
Marshland was considered to be a sacred portal between worlds.
The world took a break
Traffic stilled, just the dark rope of empty roads stretching for miles
Birds sang in the trees
No planes flew
People didn't rest
They sat in their houses and didn't sleep, no matter how calm the world outside the window
We worried and wished and waited for it all to be over
For the planet to wake up
So that we could go to bed
Moths to a candle
We chase our forbidden flame
Smoking wings ablaze
Hark to the winds of Autumn
Long dead voices raised in song
Saraband for the living
A choir for the dying
Eternal music of the ******
A fading year
Carried on the breeze
Lazy drifting clouds
Settle and soothe your tired mind
Pillows in the sky
Colourful spirit of light
Summertime with wings
Do not cry for those who have gone
Make a better world for those who are to come.
Do not put your faith in shadows of the past
Step into the light and let them see you shine
Do not curse the broken time in which we live
Race both hands to mend the clock
Do not be scared of the future
Let the future be afraid instead
You have the power to change it
If you will but try
Not quite sure where this one came from!
Green earth and blue sky
Cool grey water in between
A living paintbox
Fish dart through the rocks
Nibbling our invading toes
As we crush their world
Ripples on a pond
Do not always mean a fish
So enjoy the breeze
Poems about death
Tough without experience
Or afterlife skills
We are all dust.
Mere chaff blown on the hot winds of an African summer long ago,
when the world was fresh and humanity still sailed on clouds of air we soared above the baking earth and knew the freedom of the stars, not tethered to the ground in bonds of flesh and bone.
Dust we were and dust we will become again, in the end it's all the same.
The most overlooked yet the most important thing in the world.
To be a writer
Is to burn with words,
tiny living birds risen from our ash and dust, because we must.
We take a part of ourselves and give so that we can live and fly and fill the smoky amber coloured sky with wings,
although we know not why.
Old friends two bookends
Catching fish and memories
On a river bank
For migrating birds
Autumn is vacation time
Lucky little birds
Regrets are nothings
Or perhaps they are somethings
You wish were nothings