Postcard memories,
a sky too blue
and a sea too green,
shown in brighter colours
than they ever could have been

The tiny bit that you don't see

I only keep it around for me

The one that's there when I'm on my own

Who I am when left alone

I have others I don't hide

But that's my public facing side!

When velvet night

Gives way

Before the light of dawn is day

And lights the  eastern sky

With soft and painted grey

To chase the stars away

Happy is a department store
something to look at on every floor
if we know what we are shopping for
but generally we don't, do we?

We live in crochet

complicated webs interweaving with each other

beautiful and endlessly complex, drop one stitch and it all unravels

stop picking holes in it

we don't have the pattern to do another one!

Yearning

When soul fire

Longs to be free

Heart and Bone

Ache

But the words don't come

And beauty is stilled

A dry garden

Dust in the wind

A living thing

empty

With the promise

Of rain

Tomorrow

Shadows caught
waving curtains
nervous fingers
ever tapping
never still
beyond
and
beyond
and
beyond
the endless glassy spirals
filled with glassy spirals of their own
shattered fractal light
tight and broken pieces
filter
flicker
gutter
fall
in darkness
lie in muted heaps
so die the painted shades of sleep

In the bungalow of your thoughts
you can sit and fume at the world
while you wrap your soul
in angry net curtains!

Depression,
a dark and empty place to fall
a tube of silent closing walls
which sneak on in and wrap you tight
they **** the air and drink the light
to leave you crushed in body and soul
a resident of the rabbit-hole

Soft falls the light upon your face
shadowing each trace of sleep
who am I to know or see
the secrets that you keep
we give our minds
to flights of dreams
but only to ourselves it seems

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.

Just dust!

Mysterious girl
the snowdrop child,
buried in spring, etched in stone
in a churchyard corner she sleeps alone,
many greedy winters have gobbled up her name
she was never an enigma
because we loved her just the same

I am keeping watch
as you lay in your nest of wires
an electric symphony plays
in the background
beeps to wish you goodbye
it is the hardest thing to say to anyone
but I want you to go
because the waiting is killing us all!

Three kids in a car

Two fast asleep

One awake

It was always me

Too much to see

Sipping on the mystery

The drama of silent midnight

Abandoned buildings wet with early rain

Still broken and brown from a war I had only heard about

Moonlight on shattered windows

Papers fluttered

A pub sign blew in the wind and squeaked as we stopped at the lights

And a painted peeling 'Jack the Ripper' moved in the fog

I closed my eyes and only looked a little bit

Enjoying the thrill

Safe in our solid old car with the radio playing softly

A pea green family tank to protect me from the darkness

The sleepy watcher at the window

Who had no idea she was a writer in training!

Life is a heavy hat,
we wear it, and we learn to bear it,
as we age the debris grows,
bright chapeau that once was trimmed with flowers
attains a brim of ***** crows, that peck and eat our dreams,
crap filthy ropes and jump upon the battered crown
weighing down upon our ancient heads,
yet somewhere underneath the mess, we smile
warriors all, those of us who tread the long and weary miles,
for we have hope, that small and shrunken ghost
companion of our youthful days
she follows as we turn each corner
not quite the cheerful girl she used to be
but clinging on,
the wraith of expectation

Never flush
not tight fitting
a little bit out
not quite sitting
right with the world,
I always was an odd bit of knitting,
two plain stitches instead of purled

Clouded cattle breath
released to this November morning
a rising sun scarce dares to show its face
no fond embrace will grace a leaden sky
no warm & loving arms
to melt the chill on lonely farms and hills
all is still
as smooth & white
as paint upon a windowsill

Roll up roll up
put down your pennies
see the man who thinks he is Napoleon,
watch the lunatic dance on the White House lawn
laugh at his crazy utterings,
sitting on his throne with a plunger for a mace
and a toilet paper crown
isn’t it time we took him down, and removed him from display
gave him his meds and tucked him away in some secure place,
a safe and comfy padded space
for the good of everyone get him off show
the King of Bedlam has to go

Weighed down by rocks that were your words
I took me to the river, and tossed those pebbles far and wide,
then I found me a bridge that was burning
and danced to the other side,

Peace,
a blissful moment of release
is it an object
a concept
or a verb,
or is a little note on your head
that says, do not disturb
is it in a garden,
filled with things you grew yourself
or does it come in shopping
and a bursting wardrobe shelf,
you decide,
there is only one of you that resides
and sometimes hides in that place inside

Burn me
Bring down the heavens
Bathe me in milky light
Crushed pearls under our feet
Love me like the hurricane
you were
Our youth has flown
The tide has turned
Passion speaks eternal
A sounding voice to call all souls
Clarion song and tocsin bell
ring out for lovers

You and I can sit
Joseph Gerry Moore,
to watch the little boats
upon the rocky shore,
no one needs to speak
it’s only you and me,
let's spend a peaceful hour
with the ever-shifting sea

To read a book,
is a sharp descent,
and a swim in the author's vanity,
to write one,
takes a different skill,
I think it's called insanity

Words have no walls
except for those enclosures we build to keep them in
some are hollow
splendid fruit containing wasps within
others fill with meaning
fattened ears of corn
they are mysterious
invisible as the wind
with the power to destroy
or to fill our sails
if we find ourselves becalmed
words can be everythings
or nothings
without ears to hear
or grace of page
a stage in which to share
they are nought but empty promises
the sound of passing air

Not quite strong enough to pass,
although I try,
and beat with painted wings upon the glass,
the world beyond the window is where I want to be,
success is the garden, the butterfly is me

Don't look back in anger

You cannot wipe the sins of the past

Remember them

Use the fuel to spur you on

Work for the living not those who have gone

But remember

Live for today

Find your own way

A better path

Build a place where you belong

Remember those who were done a wrong

Then move on

But remember

It's your world now

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

Word butterflies
free on the wind
they escaped my head
while I was sleeping
the window in my mind
it seems
was open

Hail the vortex
that twisted swirling mass
drawing all to the centre
******* life from what surrounds it
to feed its hungry, needy, greedy, maw,
unstoppable and untamed,
malign, malignant,
universal force of destruction
or shall we call him Mr President

My heart is my gift

burn it on the fire

fuel of my desire

to keep you warm

through any storm.

When the wolves of life

are prowling

outside the cottage door

breathe in a little smoke

and know I love you evermore

Wool gathering

Not writing

Fear has taken my words

A lone and hungry wolf

Hiding in the fold of my mind

I cannot think

My thoughts drift

Like smoke through a window

Out into the air and the light

Where I dare not follow

I chewed on a pencil for tea
an unpleasant splinter of graphite 2B,
my head machine purrs, but cogs do not whir
nothing stirs,  
no word flowers grow,
I need some more seeds,
are they herbs are they verbs or irritating weeds  
I don't know,
how this could be so,
I will make me a garden for rhymes to bloom,
poems only flower if you give them some room

I cannot drink you,
or eat until I reach my fill,
I cannot savour every rise and hill,
consume each circling bird that drifts in flight
or charge my glass with graceful morning light,
I can only hold you,
fold you as a memory to keep and put away,
and promise that with luck I may return one day

A bond of light

Finger strong

Yet soft as the touch of skin

A silken thread forged in the heat of breath

Milk fire

Burning souls

White Hot

Cool as midnight

Blue Calm

Smoky and intense

Joining hearts and minds

Passion-Bird

Flying free at last

Liquid Sunrise

A burning arrow

Of dragon flame

Between us

Once in spring
on a day without words
when the sky was filled with singing birds
every moth every dragonfly, wasp and bee
roamed though a world that was wild and free,
amid queer plants and evolving flowers
they spent productive and happy hours
until the time when humanity came
we ******* it all up
and it’s such a ****** shame