To be a seagull
Soaring through
The silver blue sky
Clouds looming
Darkening
Yet the sudden earth
Remains dry
Yet sly
Snaking along
In a quickening breeze
The seagull
Flutters
As it sees
What it sees
As the splintered remnants
Of daylight deftly dims
The seagull hesitates
As it espies
Breadcrumbs falling
From the faltering skies
And wonders
As to how this can be
Then notices brie
Floating on the sea
Then realises
As the misted sun dies
That it was merely a dream
The seagull, at first laughs
Then cries
Screeching in a rage
It much prefers camembert
Of a certain age

by Jemia

" A thousand flowers could bloom"
From the magic (that stole the day)
That glistens, and shimmers
From within
Every beautiful rainbow
And the dreams
That linger
Of your beautiful presence
And your essence
That flows serenely
Is divene
So fine
So blossom, like a flower
My beautiful butterfly
Kiss the skies
Of dreams
And lay your wishes
And may your wishes
Come true

by Jemia

As the soft silent snow
Gently flows
The now frozen landscape
Slows
To a quiet stillness
Other than
A Robin Redbreast
Singing sweetly, and serenely
Upon a box hedge
As i silently dream
Of an old wooden sledge
Reminiscing
Of years gone by
As i flew down
A snowy hillside
And believed i could fly
I then screamed with excitement
And also with fear
Relishing the joy
That Christmas was near
Hands frozen from snowballs
Thrown with much fun
As snowmen were built
Under the cool winter sun
Then return home
To a warming log fire
And a cup of hot chocolate
Was my biggest desire
The ice on the windows
Inside, and out
As the landscape around
Gradually froze
My cheeks, a soft reddish blush
Awaiting the dread
Of snow turned to slush

by Jemia

Words fall
Like Autumn leaves
The ink of inspiration
Drips from my pen
That teases, tantalises, and tussles
My windswept imagination
As quickly
As a bird wink
Free, wanton, and wanting
To flood the page
With imagery
Suffice
T o sacrifice
To thrill the quill
To once again
Fly
Until the ink runs dry
As words dissipate
In thought
All dressed up
And nowhere to flow

by Jemia

Silent Light
As i lie here
In my cold untidy room
Bank statements, and poetry
Intermingling, lie strewn, and scattered
Upon the floor
Like a reluctant ****
A barrel ***** is playing on the radio
Like a haunting
As ghosts of yesterday
Fill my mind, reminiscent memories
Can be so unkind
The wet, and windy weather without
Reflects upon my inner storm
Unrelenting
In this cold isolation
Soon
This bleak solitude
Will have some reprieve
As i try to latch on to some optimism
As sweet music, and words
Will float through the air
Embracing my heart
With the magic of creativity
"If music be the food of love"
Then i am a jacket potato
In e minor
Leaking soft butter,
Once my coat has been sliced open
The music on the radio
Suddenly becomes more intense
And so
In my defence
I switch it off
And simply lie
In the soft silent light
Of my dragon lamp
And return to my reminiscing
A chaotic opera
Of memories
With my pirouetting heart
That now lays alone
Like an empty fruit bowl

by Jemia

A gentle seduction
As fingers float
Seemingly
******
The keys
Softly caressing
The ivories
Sweet temptation
As the music
Floats along the still waters
Of my soul
Pirouetting fantasies
Floating
Across a myriad thoughts
The soft gentle tones
gentle, and delicate
The notes
Levitate
Hovering
As if caught
On the breezes
Like Autumn leaves
Skittish dreams
Chaotic
Yet beautiful
As tempting
As a tempestuous storm
As yet unmet
The wild wind blows
The ripples ripen
And sweet love
Is found

by Jemia

On a tiny little island
In the middle of a small pool
Stood a very, very tall tree
That was ever so tall
That it's top was allowed
To brush the clouds
Near the top of this tree
Lived a small family
Of tree sprites
And late at night
Would often be seen
Creating clouds of a misty green
As they flew, one, and all
Just above the very small pool
Sometimes, when twilight was nigh
They sat astride dragonflies
Their wings often skimming the water
Like stones
Whilst shrieking with pleasure
In a myriad tones
The wise old owl
That lived a few branches lower
Would blink open its owly eyes
Would hoot loudly, and occasionally glower
As the shy squirrel, would hide away like a flower
So would clean out its drey
Which was tucked away
Within the tree
Using its big bushy tail
To sweep away the nut shells
(The sprites would gather these together
To wear on their heads, in stormy weather)
Below the squirrel
Which lived just below the owl
Who in turn
Lived below the tree sprites
There lived a cuckoo
Who
When quite alone
Would waltz around her home
And practise what she would sing
Upon the arrival of Spring
Below the cuckoo, lived two pigeons
Who sometimes teased the cuckoo
By taking it in turn to coo
Coo, coo, what a hullabaloo!
Beneath the pigeons
Lived a woodworm, called Woody
He never made a sound, he could not, how could he?
And just below him, lived a witch so profound
Where the tree, joined the ground
The witch, was called Harriet
She had a broom, as fast as a jet
The wood for the broom, had grown on the tree
As had her wand, of great mystery
The tree
Was called Ogilvy
He was very old, and wise
His aged limbs, touched the skies
His roots ran deep, deep underground
Spreading far, and wide, and all around
He, like the woodworm
Never spoke a sound
Other than to rustle in the breeze
Like most other trees
And when there was a gale
Seemingly seemed, to sometimes wail
As he was pushed sideways, with the wind
Creating a somewhat loud, creaking din
But protected all those, that lived within
And in the Summer, and the Spring
Ogilvy did a magical thing
As all his blossoms, and leaves would grow
They'd reveal the colours, of a beautiful rainbow

by Jemia