An octopus is a cephalopod
they are as a species
delightfully odd
an eight legged squiggle
with a wiggle

Sunday papers and a sit in bed
nothing needs saying that hasn’t been said
we can read the thoughts in each other’s heads
you drink your coffee, and I sip my tea
who ever knew we could ever be
happy not speaking, just you and me

There are tulips in the gutter
perfect blooms,
destined for dinner with a friend,
they were meant for the table
but alas she was unable to attend

Four hundred years I stood  
a mighty oak of vast and stretching limbs  
until I fell, and then I lay,  
the home of scurrying beetles that you see today,
an old maid with a cap of spider lace
quite peaceful and content within my resting place

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

Once afraid
I turned my coat from the world
wore it inside out and hid away
showed the lining dull and grey
I did not want the world to see
that rainbow coloured other me

On days like these

Winter sunrise low on the trees

Bruised dawn of crimson pinks and yellows

silhouettes the waving branches

sharp relief against a cloth of birds

A bedraggled army of tattered hungry souls

clinging to straws in an empty field

feathers moving in the early light

as tinted day takes on the shift from frosted winter night

Our connection
is a pale moon above
and stars that shine
they are yours as much as ever they were mine
we feel the grey of falling rain
the warmth of joy and the chill of pain
we live and we love, we laugh and die
under a yellow sun and the same blue sky

Stones in my pockets
weigh me down
and roll like eggs while I wade in the blue
further than I thought my nerve would ever hold
chill creeps a frosty band around my chest
feet no longer touching sand
hands two waving fish among the ****
gulls as they cry pay little heed
I am beyond them now, those earthly things
Ophelia has her water wings

Mycelium hair
frames her lovely face,
arms flung wide
in silent embrace,
fingers float
lilies uncurled,
peaceful she floats
slipped from the world

Fronds of Auburn hair
Frame you as a sunflower
Floating in moonlight

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!

The rain
when it came
was not unexpected
soft at first
then larger drops
falling music
dancing puddles
ignored in a rush of passers by
I stayed to the end
and heard it all
that orchestra of sky

Darling clever Oscar Wilde
that Enfant terrible
a rebellious child
he was pretty
and very witty
and yes he was gay
it's a shame we couldn't accept him that way

When we dream
we take down a book
from the shelf
of ourself

Pick up the brush
although the handle be thorns
and paint with words, or love or tears or rain
paint them all the same
paint your heart or the sky or a thousand other things
paint until the brush is dry and fingers bleed
for you are blessed indeed

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

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

Secrets never aired,
have painfully awoken,
although we dance on questions
hitherto unspoken,
the trust that once we shared,
is vandalised and broken,

Spoilt and pampered season
indulged and petulant spring,
please don't pout and drag your heels
we need the light you bring,
the birds and bees are waiting
so could you make a start
be a dear, stop sulking
it's time you played your part

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
and shining grass unbroken,
a day still new
wrapped in promise newly woken

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

Love is a peach,
a sweet and luscious fruit
set high upon a garden wall,
we climb, we taste
we scrape our knees and then we fall,
then through burning embers
one remembers
it was worth it after all

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