NO WORDS

There are no words that can describe it
Nor deliver any reasonable explanation
As rationality no longer plays any part
While mysterious forces are at its heart
That might cause a strange perturbation
And as per the saying, it is the biter bit

THE LINE

In determining what is good or bad
There’s a sort of line that separates
Running down as a kind of division
For words or ideas needing revision
No ignoring it, as one contemplates
But all fashionable choices are a fad

Whether written or just in the mind
The line cuts through it like a blade
To one side, it’s what should survive
On the other, no reason to be alive
A clear distinction will be displayed
And rejection never does feel kind

If only justice were as simple as this
Innocent or guilty, right and wrong
For many, it’s like a line in the sand
Yet difficult for some to understand
It’ll be left or right before too long
With only a smallest chance to miss

STYLE

Can one have a style of love
Swung open like a gate, inviting
Or perhaps a door slammed shut
Trapping all within its space
Feelings are the sculptor
An image forming, chisel in hand
Or even a seasoned potter
Hands around spinning wet clay
Yet love can turn inside out
Once a soft smile, now hard stare
Passion spent, mixed emotions
Still trying to make sense of it all
Trust love to be like vapour
Swirling around without form or shape
But always nearby, ready to hug
Taking over once again, ready or not
And it alone determines its span
Whether minutes or decades
A secret never understood
But a style that can be

FALLING

I suppose it may have been a message
When that picture just fell off the wall
Maybe it was never really appreciated
Or perhaps, by at least one, not at all

They have a sort of instinct, you know
About what every passer-by may think
And whether loved, dismissed or hated
Brings their self-awareness to the brink

But it’s such an act of self deprecation
It’s almost committing suicide, in fact
In art, imagery is everything of course
Whether style is traditional or abstract

Some paintings can appear overblown
But this canvas was so modestly sized
It is an unusual act of self-deprecation
Being sensitive, when cruelly criticised

But this curator held a different view
Sympathetic, with a wide perspective
Modern art, a form of free expression
Demands that all should be reflective

Just five inches square, it was re-hung
The fall incident reported as appalling
Quite the ironic twist in the coverage
When its title was revealed as ‘Falling’

NOT JUST ABOUT LEAVES

Yes, it’s always about autumn
For so many, the best season
Perhaps it is a time to ponder
Or in morning mists, wander
But winter’s ice is not treason
As is proven in post-mortem

One can always sense the turn
As the span of a pretty bridge
Crossing from a summer’s joy
To fields of brown courduroy
And colder air from the fridge
Of the change, much to learn

As ever a remarkable transition
It resonates well, often in verse
And as a favourite time of year
Whose progress it tries to steer
Its language is full and not terse
Metaphor needs no permission

IN MY SHELL

I might at times give the wrong impression
My upbringing was always about discretion
With being carefulo about any intercession
Less tempted about always hitting the spot
And generally saying little rather than a lot
But a lack of interest well, it’s certainly not
Sometimes a muted approach may be right
Rather than loud arguing or starting a fight
In the long run, trying to stay out of sight
That one can be easily misjudged, it’s true
I would rather be counted among the few
Than the many, and part of a motley crew

Perhaps my mission in life was to be a spy
Despite my hating to ever to pursue a lie
Yet it has little appeal, I cannot think why
Always holding all cards close to my chest
To say little or nothing, just might be best
And if there’s choices to make, take a rest
At least I’m someone who can be discreet
And demonstrating trust should feel sweet
Yet it’s never the same as accepting defeat
But then can anyone really know who I am
No outward display that I do give a ****
Nor fake courtesy with a thank you ma’am

It’s not that I am scared or nervous at all
As my capacity for being brave isn’t small
But it is never anything like taking the fall
Sometimes it takes strength just to observe
Is it better to hit the car ahead or swerve
And it takes courage to hold one’s nerve
But in the end, it is all about appearance
Just hoping for a little bit less interference
Yet there are rules that require adherence
Stand back take much of life on the chin
It’s more about the truths that are within
But that is still somewhere one may begin

PLAY ON

It’s mostly music that moves me
As my brain does seek harmony
And some little disharmony too
Yet others take a different view
Inspired by actual visual images
Whether skies or pretty villages
But I still see these in my mind
Often in such sharp focus I find
Then hearing sounds of thunder
Yet which is more true I wonder

A melody can haunt me for life
Like painting with a pallette knife
As a line of colour spread across
Those ignoring art, it’s their loss
But surely, everyone is affected
When a familiar tune is detected
That resonates deep in the brain
It can be like turning up the gain
Hear the sound of a sweet voice
And surrender, without a choice

The genres can be jazz or classical
Yet the effects still can be magical
There’s something in those chords
It’s the joy and pleasure it affords
Being swept along in a state of bliss
Compared to a lingering loving kiss
All the other senses have their day
But few things can make one sway
Brain mix that spans left and right
Deep black turns to brilliant white