Paintbox colours make our world
grey and clinging fog of disbelief
echoed by the indigo of grief
bitter orange wheat of rage
before we finally turn the page
accept the solid yellow ochre of finality
and begin to paint ourselves a new reality

And the rain fell as numbers
countless splashes
painted pearls of days
turning my hair to white
all unknowing
that soon enough the storm would pass
and whoever threw these jewels
to cover me with life
would only hurl them once

Pansexual
love the person not their gender
surrender to love in huge amounts
because that’s what counts

Paradise is a free flying bird
with feathers to trim a hat
made especially for you

Bequeath to me sleep in your will
let me lay, all silent and unknowing
leave me this as your parting gift
for only the dead can ever know true peace
I may dream of you, and never want to wake
we can waltz together to music never-ending
a sweet sad tune we both know full and well
hold me tight, I will not fear the night
knowing you are waiting,
just as you promised, just like you said
in the candlelit ballroom
that lives in my head

Walk then,
touch the silent acres,
dew pond wet
with shining grass unbroken,
a day still new,
wrapped in promise newly woken,
bare feet make the morning

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

The past it is no sea
no tide that breaks upon a foreign land
it is a creek, an oily little stream
which bleeds its waters on today's white sand

Peace
that shy elusive beast
a spotted doe or hind
hiding deep within the forest of your mind
which makes her difficult to find

Passion
a taste of peaches
grown upon a wall
through glowing embers
love remembers
how sweet it was to fall

Today I went to the beach
to hear the rolling ocean
and the irksome cries of gulls
as they flew in circular motion
not sure why I went
it was just a peculiar notion

Twilight is a spark
Saturday's penny candle
Lights Sunday's fire

I hear his footsteps on the floor

Waiting just outside the door

On carpet like they had before

We don't have it any more

I wonder who he's waiting for!

Smoke which drifts and curls
Feeding the senses
Frosty beginnings
Bacon on the hob
Snow in the air
Crackled brown leaves on warm wood fires
Frozen Pine and tar on the door
A needle sharp morning
Crisp as a whisper
Brim full
With the scent of a mountain winter
Essence of bottled sometime
A perfume of the past

True persuasion
I think that you will find
is the gentle invasion
and the subsequent erasion
of a thought in someone's mind

Those who the sea shall take
will be flowers
wave borne blossoms
petals of memory
do not wither
as do blooms on land
we think of them
each rolling tide
that gently kisses sand

Petrified people
are often alone
they build themselves a heart of stone
it stops the hurt getting in
and the love getting out

A rare and rather precious bloom

The shining light in a darkened room

Someone special

Now and then

Gets closest to a perfect ten

The rest of us live in their shade

They never last

All flowers fade

Phenomenons are born not made

One who will give

Instead of take

Most of the income that they make

A lot of them are merely fake

They splash the cash but all the while

The guilt is there behind the smile

How do you think they made their pile?

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.

The waving wheat in Picot’s field
is burned to yellow sand,
a harvest tide of buttered rain
salutes the combine’s hand,
one last defiant gesture
before the cut and fall,
bowing at the reaper,
who comes to scythe us all

Ants on a dry leaf
conquerers and pioneers
sailing the puddle

Salty old river

Flowing gently

Downwards

In space

Running off

The waterfall

That is my face

My poems may not be all that good
not near as much polish as they should
some of them wither on the vine
but *******
at least they are mine!

Take the long road
walk in the woods
feel the grace of trees
consider each winding turn
bees hum
plainsong in the heather
drowsy as the passing day
do not wave
make the final corner
close your eyes
and rest

You cannot possess a soul

Force it into chains

Crush a spirit and take what
remains

Make a slave

Own it from the cradle to the grave

You can use cruel ties

But you cannot bind

Freedom of the mind

Original thought

Cannot be bought

Grief is an empty place
a dark and silent painful space
with the hardest plastic chair
you wait until a flicker of light
shines under a door
you never knew was there

Poem
a drink of words
sometimes shaken
stirred with thought
the cocktail
is you

The poem bird
a stubborn thing
of fickle wings
and shuttered beak
that will not sing
decided he would fly
he left the nest between my ears
and never said goodbye!

Poetry is not spaghetti
you cannot herd, strings of complicated words
and hurl them at the page, one by one
to see if they stick, when the poem is done

Dip your poets brush in words
give me the east wind
the smell of snow beneath my feet
heavy yellow summer heat
splashing rain upon a roof
sketch me proof, or lies, or pain
draw me a sound I will not hear again
paint me a picture, for the things my eyes cannot see

My polite smile is a candle

it burns

occasionally flickering

throwing shadows

eating itself

losing form

softening

when the lights go out

there is nothing there!

Poppies after rain
Waving scarlet petticoats
A garden can-can

The artwork a face
a mirror the frame
no portrait the same

To Create
Is the highest point of man
Not because you should
Just because you can!

Smooth

Sometimes round

Sound as a pound

A chamber for nesting

For sitting and resting

Awaiting the call

An egg has it all

Children play

Mouths open in silent wonder

Purple waves

Begin to roll

Lovers love

Holding hands

A final time

Together

Drowning

Faces lit with

Jasmine yellow

And fuchsia fire

Reflect the falling embers

Burning sky and haunted beauty

Sunset at the end of the world

Twitcher runner dancer

moonlit watcher

road chancer

nibbler chewer chaser

wind rider

headlight facer!

The rain on my window has no idea that I think of it as fat unsalted tears, as I watch the flow from ashen discontented skies

It cannot think or reason why
I feel this way

About the foggy endless grey
that fills my head

The heavy sense of brooding and unsatisfying dread

Maybe tomorrow the sullen rain will drain away

But not today