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Jack Aylward Aug 2015
A bird hovers his heart
Like a flower opening up into happiness.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
Flipped in the oven sun, arched like a bow
They jumped one by one
As they found their own way through the thick foam
Of the falls of Shinn
Where the rushed and glided
Flying through the air
Like dolphins in the cool
Seas  of Firth Of Forth;
Trying to find home
As the ice broke free.

Sitting on the cold rock
I feel the slime,
I feel my face burn with stinging
Coldness from the water spray
As I watch them leap
Into freedom.
I also escape...
Drinking my souvenir whiskies
From my 1970's
Led Zeppelin satchel.

Above me people snap shots with their flash
Cameras
As they rise like the sun.
Children laughing and feeling happy
Except one who wants to go home;
My brother who wants to watch TV!

Right next to him was the most beautifulest girl
I've ever seen.
Rainbows were in her auburn hair
Burning with autumn sun,
Blossoming with winter snow drops.
Her hair was like the river itself.

Her eyes were as green as the four leaf
Clover I held in my hand.
Maybe I was lucky to be in love.

Her eyes for that very second floated into mine
As she smiled
And I smiled back.
God how much I wanted to kiss her.
She was utterly beautiful.
But in that very instant she was gone
And I was never to see her again....

In the autumn light
Showering shadows
Were starting to collect crystals
In the melted waters below
And the gold is beginning to spread
Upon the leaping salmon.

©Jack Aylward
I wrote this after I went on holiday to Sutherland in the Scottish Highlands when I was about 15. It was my summer school holidays!
Jack Aylward Jul 2015
The u-turn of uninterrupted talk
Falls short before the midnight hour
And through the remembrances
The hushed
Echoing of a printed face smiles
Among the old and new.
But only you know he has gone,
For your heart is broken
And thrown about the room
Where your old man's chair sits alone....
Where you once shared
A laugh and a joke,
A tear and a smoke,
A kiss and a hug,
A poem and a mug
Of tea,
(With a wee dram of Glenmorangie)
On a cold night
By the firelight,
Reading Frost
- 'The Grindstone'
In candlelight,
Listening to Django Reinhardt's
'Crazy Rhythm'
On the radio
As it beats out a frenetic system
Of notes that runs and parts
Into segments of your mind.
Now you are on your own,
You sit back to find
What you have lost....

©Jack Aylward,
July 2013
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
We made music
For the dawn birds
And watched the sunrise.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Sep 2015
Pink caress
Your lips
Press
Together
To kiss
Upon mine.

©Jack Aylward,
28/9/15
I wrote this after drinking Isla Negra wine and playing 'Pink Moon' by Nick Drake, softly in the background whilst also watching the supermoon eclipse, tonight, turn a subtle pink!
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
Mind of power
Controls the crippled bodies dying; burnt
By the sun. Hung by a far-reaching cold iron chain;
Ringing with bursting, thrusting pain;
Where the eyes are tissues of penetrating darkness that turns into tortured dreams.
You can still hear the screams,
The muttering, the mumbling, the confessions of the innocence that learnt
The sufferings and sorrow of evil. I lay a flower
Into blood and left it to float upon a river of *****; leaving
A stream of pneumonia, a stream of the plague that
Left the pungent smells of perfume dying.
I watched their estranged faces, their eyes still crying.
Bodies lie still awakened in trench like beds; lying flat
On their backs as they left their loved ones grieving.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
TILL AIR, TILL BREATH
KISSED THE MARGIN OF MY LIPS.
TILL SOFT, TILL WARM
THE SPICES OF ***-POURRI
CLASHES TILL SOFTENED HANDS
TOUCHING MY FACE, STROKING MY HAIR.

HER VIOLENT PASSION FOR LOVE
EMPTIED IN THE CANDLELIT ROOM
TRANSPARENT WITH ECLIPSED HEARTS
MANY WITH ROMANTIC FIRES
MANY DEEP AND ELOQUENT;
EACH MATCHING THE COMPLEXION OF HER FACE.

THE COMBINED ATTENTION OF MY HEART
ARTISTICALLY MET WITH HER HAIR
FULL WITH MULLED CHERRIED WINE
LAVENDER, STRAWBERRY, GINGER AND VANILLA
AS THE SCENT
FROM THE CANDLES
ESCAPED THERE.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
The willow stood flower-like as a star.

The birds were like a choir following thy
Mellowed tune
As I whistled through the light winds in the air
And the meadows were green with mint and clover.
In the center laid a carpet of buttercups
Exploding with vibrant shades
Of purple primroses.

The blue sky crawled
And dripped onto the leaves
Where the green cadmium leaves of the willow
Were lifted and bounded in my soul.

The cleavage of the hands
That sing may hold the dust
From the clouds above
But the remembered memory is left alone
As the tightening of the roots
Gathers me together;
Finding the tune that embraces him
Enfolding him into a wandering dove.

Happy thoughts I had
When I slept at night
Upon a branch
Making faces with the moon
Listening to the willow
Whistling, humming
With its harmonic beat
In G Major.
But now summer has blown away;
It is gone forever.

In deciduous opening
When leaves had fallen
Like my youth
Before it drifted away;
I had vacant memories and happy
Pictures of childhood days
Where I had been alone
And wrote swiftly with pen and paper.

©Jack Aylward
judy smith Feb 2017
Leading fashion stylists and casting directors have been directed by clients to avoid doing business with Trump Models, a company that promotes itself as “the brainstorm and vision of owner, Donald Trump”, several sources have told the Guardian.

Trump Models refused to comment, but according to its Twitter feed several models had made it on to the catwalk. News of such directives comes during New York fashion week, days after the president used Twitter to condemn the retailer Nordstrom for dropping his daughter Ivanka’s clothing brand, claiming poor sales.

According to one leading casting director who spoke to the Guardian on condition of anonymity, directives to avoid using models represented by Trump Modelsbegan last fall, before the presidential election. They then spread by “word of mouth”, the casting director said.

The effectiveness of any de facto boycott is hard to gauge. Trump Models, founded in 1999, is not considered a big player in the fashion business.

“It’s not a great agency, so it’s not such a big loss,” said the casting director, who was not authorised to speak on behalf of their client.

A French fashion stylist, who also requested anonymity, said she was reluctant to engage with a business that would put money in the pocket of the Trump family. When asked if they would use Trump models during fashion week, she replied simply: “Nooo!”

“People certainly look twice if a Trump model comes for a casting,” said another leading American stylist. “But a boycott wouldn’t necessarily be a big loss to the business.”

A third stylist, a prolific veteran in the industry, said he hoped there was a boycott on the Trump agency but added that “if there was a girl I wanted, I wouldn’t mind if she was represented by Attila the ***”.

On Thursday, the fashion website Refinery 29 reported that hairstylist Tim Aylward had vowed to stop working on jobs that involved “talent” from Trump Models.

Trump Models once represented first lady Melania Trump, and currently represents dozens of models from all over the world. It also runs a division for “legends”, including Paris Hilton and Carol Alt.

The agency, which claims to be at “the forefront of cultivating a wide range of innovative and vibrant talent which personify the trends of the fashion industry”, has faced claims of mismanagement.

Last year, Canadian model Rachel Blais told CNN some managers at the agency had encouraged her to skirt US visa laws. “As a model, one of the things you learn quite quickly is that … you shouldn’t ask too many questions,” Blais said. “If you want to work, you have to do as you’re told. Yet you’re kind of aware that it’s not legal.”

Last year, Canadian model Rachel Blais told CNN some managers at the agency had encouraged her to skirt US visa laws. “As a model, one of the things you learn quite quickly is that … you shouldn’t ask too many questions,” Blais said. “If you want to work, you have to do as you’re told. Yet you’re kind of aware that it’s not legal.”

Blais was also one of four women who described their experience with Trump Models to Mother Jones. The women said they were forced to live in squalor in a crowded apartment in the East Village of New York City.

The women said the apartment contained multiple bunks, for which models paid $1,600 each, and housed up to 11 people at a time. “We’re herded into these small spaces,” one former model said, saying the apartment “was like a sweatshop”.

The then vice presidential candidate Mike Pence told CNN he was “very confident that this business, like the other Trump businesses, has conformed to the laws of this country”.

In court papers filed in 2014, Trump model Alexia Palmer said she was promised full-time work and $75,000 a year. She sued after earning just $3,880 and some modest cash advances for 21 days of work over three years.

“That’s what slavery people do,” Palmer told ABC News in March 2016. “You work and don’t get no money.”

Trump attorney Alan Garten said allegations of being treated like a slave were “completely untrue” and said Palmer had simply not been in demand. The suit was dismissed. Laurence Rosen, a lawyer who represented Trump Models in the case, told the Guardian his firm “is not handling any other lawsuits or claims concerning model representation, nor am I aware that any such lawsuits or claims have been asserted” against Trump Models.

Shannon Coulter, of the Trump boycott movement #grabyourwallet, said Trump Models had not been added to its list of Trump-owned or affiliated businesses because it was not a consumer-facing business.

“What we’re seeing is that the Trump name is becoming truly toxic,” she said. “It seems that people can’t get away from the Trumps fast enough now. I think those casting directors and stylists are making the right call not doing business with them.”

Coulter rejected the suggestion that a boycott of Trump Models might end up hurting the working models it represents, rather than the owners of the business.

“When you chose not to do business with a company,” she said, “you chose to do business with other companies that do have employees, too, so I don’t put stock in that.”

Amid continued questions about Trump’s relationship with his business empire and how it fits with federal ethics regulations, Trump-owned fashion interests have suffered adverse publicity.

On Saturday, retailers Sears and Kmart removed 31 Trump Home items from their online product offerings to focus on more profitable items, a spokesman said. The collection includes furniture, lighting, bedding, mirrors and chandeliers.

Last week, retailer Nordstrom followed Macy’s and Neiman Marcus in dropping Ivanka Trump products. That prompted a furious response from Trump, whotweeted: “My daughter Ivanka has been treated so unfairly by @Nordstrom.”

Nordstrom justified its decision, reporting that online sales of Ivanka Trump products fell 26% in January year on year.

Within the fashion industry, there is speculation that while the performance of Ivanka Trump’s line was disappointing, it was not enough to merit being abruptly dropped.

At least part of the reasoning, they speculate, was pressure from other brands and labels carried by Nordstrom.

“We would not base a decision on that. Our decision was based on the performance of her brand which had been steadily declining over the year. We had discussions with Ivanka and her team and shared our decision with Ivanka personally in early January.”

However, Coulter said it was likely Nordstrom had faced pressure from other suppliers. “The Ivanka Trump sales were down but it’s possibly not the whole truth. There are studies that say boycotts work at the brand level, not the sales level, so probably both forces were at play.”

White House counselor Kellyanne Conway later urged the public to buy the Ivanka Trump brand – and faced widespread criticism that she had overstepped ethics regulations. The White House press secretary, Sean Spicer, said Conway had been “counseled”.

On Saturday, Trump said on Twitter that the media had “abused” his daughter.

In New York, protests against the Trump presidency have rippled through the fashion industry’s market week. Calvin Klein played David Bowie’s This is Not America and a Mexican immigrant designer for LRS Studio showed underwear that carried the message: “**** your wall”. Public School’s Dao-Yi Chow and Maxwell Osborne sent out red Trump-esque baseball hats spelling out: “Make America New York.”

Senior industry figures, including Vogue’s Anna Wintour and LVMH chief executive Bernard Arnault, have, however, held meetings with the president. Vogue plans to feature Melania Trump on its cover.

Designers including Dior and Ralph Lauren have dressed the first lady. Others, including Marc Jacobs, have said they will not.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com | www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
She lay next to me.
Her hair like sand
As it sifts through my hand.
The perfumes of her hair
Are coming from the sea
Out there;
Out there where the sun
Burns its ****** flame
And settles to rise
In the oceans of Michelle's eyes.
Undone
With lace and pearls she plays her little game
Teasing and taunting me with the beauty
Of her body; she embraces me with kisses as waves copulate on the sea.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
We fold together like paper.
Our hearts beating;
Breaking and twisting open
Love's ***** dome.

With flight our minds
Melt words in pools of autumn sun
As we carve our initials in wood.

Our shape flits
Like butterflies
As we lie wet and naked
Moving together in heat.
Floating like lillies,
Like rose petals
Descending down the riverbank.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Sep 2015
Clear like a pearl of magic,
This silver eye
That looks down at us
In a world of it's own understanding
Makes love with the sun
When they come together
To embrace.

The moon is like a globe of love;
A synagogue of peace.
God's eye watching over us,
Keeping us safe.
God's face admiring us
With our beauty
As we act on his stage.

The moon is like a woman's breast,
Her heart, her soul,
Her eye, her womb,
Her ******.

The sun burns with ****** desire
When the sun and moon come to kiss;
They become locked
In an eclipse of fire.

Mysterious
Like a blanket,
Like a golden fleece
The sphere of the moon sweeps across the sky
Like a quiet dream;
Floating like a ghost.
Wandering in jolting movements
As it sits in it's black watery hell.

As the moon sits
On a layer of haunting past,
Beauty, myth and adventure
It discovers the wilderness of ourselves.
It watches us making love,
It watches us when the world
Is at an end in war
And terror.
It confronts it with love and peace
And when we are in need of love,
Comfort and help
And his friends: the stars
Are at rest
He finds his own way of knowing
Where we are....

For those people who suffer the most
Are given hope,
Love and freedom.

And when the romantic moonlight spreads across
The lawn with silver shadows
It gives us pleasure of dreaming in silence....

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Jul 2015
Often, one young in ripened youth will fall in love
With such a glowing heart to flutter at fair
Red lips, to meet and touch another sensitively enough,
To look and dream in eyes so rare,

Turning to take the others' hands
Floating as a stream into trickling tears
Like a flower with dew on finest strands.
Their golden hair, caught by the luminous moon, appears

Now mirrored like their own reflected faces
Beaming, following each other in each other's dream,
Understanding the beauty and innocence that graces
Where they meet in a startling gleam.

Entering a non-ageing youth of whispered time
The lovers' hearts entwine to rhyme.


©Jack Aylward
(Published in the Scotia Review magazine, no.24 edition, Summer 2001).
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
******* in the morning
Of the first moon;
We make harvest
For the future.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
The morning light is everywhere.
The soft frost
Is new
And the grass
Is crunching under my cold bare feet.

The trees; naked
Seem to walk
Leaving their shadows
Across the meadows.
I chase them
Across a little burn
Of running water.

©Jack Aylward
I wrote this after my morning walk. Burn is a Scottish word for river or stream.
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
Our lives are in embers
But we still cut
Still fold
Still burn;
Ignite
With old flames.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
Anything goes
Whether your an in and out writer
Waiting to be put back inside
The loony bin.
Or a poet on suicide watch
Or an actor looking for ***
Or a ******* wanting to
Become a teacher.
Or a nun smoking dope
Or the alcoholic pope who
Is on the run for ******.
Or the racist who works
For the salvation army
Or the Antichrist
Who is the local vicar.
Anything goes
Whether the Prime Minister
Is really a loner and drunkard
Or the neo-**** who wants
To become a Buddhist.
Anything goes
Whether I am a somebody
Who wants to be a nobody.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Sep 2015
Tonight we
Held hands
Like we did
On the Sabbath
Sunday noon

Tonight we
Dipped our feet
In the moon-lipped
Pool

Tonight we
Pressed our bodies together
Like the eclipse of the sun
And moon

Tonight we
Danced a thousand sonnets
To our pagan stone Gods

©Jack Aylward
15/1/13
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
If you love
Romance
And beauty
You will remember
Me
- The one
Who touched
Your heart
Like no other.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
A velvet leaf of clover; green
As vivid grass
Is blowing in an
Apricot breeze
Near a stream
Of pollinated hay.

Luck is long as a drifting current
In the water
And the clover
Is a brooch
Near a felt sky.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
Each memory
Holds your breath....

I will never forget
The touch
Of your tongue
Of many adventures
Kayaking
Down the river
Of my mouth;

The solar eclipse
Of our copulating lips.

©Jack Aylward,
20/2/14
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
I have settled and grown up
Here as a child where the
Garden is full of flowers and fruit
And the river is a rainbow.

The smell of peat fires in the morning
And warm crusted bread wafts
Slowly down the lane.

Wooden crates full to the top
With apples, pears
And strawberries
Are left outside the front porch
Ready to be brought
Into the cottage
Where the juices fall
Into an outstanding
Fruitfulness.

Roses hang still over the river and blossom
Into wine
Where also in the garden of light
Bullfinches, sparrows,
Chaffinches sing
And daisies and buttercups lie
In a sweltering sun
Of perfumed heat.

Over and over the green hills
I look down into the deep valleys
Where lakes are flavoured with
Pineapples and waterfalls
With damsons.

The garden of apricot jams, willows
And lily ponds open and spread
Their tasteful colour in an
Orchard of beaming texture and an
Opening of real wonder.

In our thatched white cottage
Smoked hams saturated in salt and fat
Sit above the crackling log fire
And the rooms are filled with gloominess.
A particular charm drifts through
The place from the
Warm glowing fire.

- Oh how the light passes through the
Whole house and how each window
Is a copy of glittering diamonds
That spreads
Across the musical garden of bells
And down onto the cobbled path
Where the geese
Flap their feathered gowns and fly off
Into the blue mountains
Where their
Feathers fall into the sun.

Cider is drunk by the gallon
From cider presses
And the fragrant
Ingredients are a special delight
Not to mention what it does
To the mind afterwards
As we drown happily
Upon the grass
Reading poetry
Or kissing our lovers soft lips
Under the shade of the trees
There the dove calls from the tree tops
Where our earthly hearts are scattered
And nearby a rose closely shimmers
In an azured wood.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
Tonight
My dog and I embraced
For the last time
Under the quiet
Of moonlight.
Man and dog
Friends
For life;
We will always
Love each other.

©Jack Aylward,
25/10/15,
22:00pm
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
A single feather
Floats into the lost
Darkness.
Naked and silent;
Free in flight.

A swan
Makes way
To my opened window
Which had broken
The moon's reflection.

Snowflakes drop
Forming a standstill
Of life....

Love had melted
Its touch
As my fingers curl
Through the softness
Of the swans white feathers.

©Jack Aylward
I wrote this on Christmas Eve a few years ago. The heavy snow, the moon and the illumination of light as well as the thought of Christmas inspired me to write this poem. There was no swan but the whiteness of snow and the moon caught my attention and the snowflakes were like swans feathers
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
This wind blows like steel
From the cotton fields
Across my backyard.
My hand holds a cold metal
Object.
It is sharp,
Shiny
But old.
Its a picture frame
Holding a memory
Of youth, love, and happiness.
- I am old and alone now.

©Jack Aylward,
28/11/11
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
Beauty is in my woman's eyes.
I look, I glance,
I take in advance
To watch the sunsets rise.
Beauty are her lips
I kiss. Like a sea of red tulips,
Like a single folding wave;
Her lips seem to dance whilst they slave
Away
On a summer's day.
Beauty are my woman's *******
I touch, I caress.
Beauty is in her being -
Making love to her; whether its touching, kissing, finding, feeling.

©Jack Aylward
5th April 2004
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
Each molecule
In the air,
Each platonic
Kiss
Of your hair,
Of your lips,
Of the things
We once were
Like atom
To atom
Dust to dust;
Freedom to touch
As we float in the air.

©Jack Aylward,
12th June 2005
Jack Aylward Feb 2017
Did I ever tell you
That we all burn
Because our lives
Are all so ****** up?
Life is so *******
Meaningless!

We live our lives
Every day
On hope.
Not necessarily because
We believe in it
But because
That's all we have
To rely on.

                                               ©Jack Aylward
This poem has been lying in my drafts for about 9 months!! Thought I would give it some life by sharing it. I haven't edited it, just left it, as it is, but just added my name to the bottom. I imagine I had left it for so long because I wasn't sure to add an extra verse or not at the time. I hope you like it who ever reads it.
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
To love we conquered
Whilst we were still young.
I walked that earth,
I touched that sun.

Those lips I once kissed
Were my first
As they were the sweetest to thirst.

Your hair had the golden mirth
Of the sun;
We made love all night long
As we would lie together
Watching the shooting stars race
Across the sky.

But since we have parted
I've started
To think how much I've missed
Your face.

©Jack Aylward
22nd June 2005
Jack Aylward Jul 2015
Lights lie flashing their sirens with the opening of the dawn;
In the sun streaked streets the artists mix their
Painted faces with oiled pigments;
The dusts of the streets, the dust of the leaves that burn with
The cold and rust with the heat disperse with
The knotted storms that rope the
Blazing frosted earth that lies there forever escaping into air.

Luminous yellow and flamed coloured red are streaming like
The moon and sun reversing and crossing each
Other in a street of luminous people
Where the warmth of great passion hangs in perfumed bottles,
Where people are beautiful in their young
Youth, people arranged like flowers
Burning with ripened love, soft and delicate in innocence.

The Eiffel Tower, the pinpoint of our dreams lies open as a free
Flamed metallic torch that ferments with its iron
Emotions; an almost Romanesque
Renaissance coloured with the Millennium stars that rocket into
The sky then stay for a while turning into dust
And becoming our ashes as we
Summon on again to the fires of our morning lovers we had left.

©Jack Aylward
This is a poem I've dedicated for the people of Paris who love freedom, romance, life and peace, 13/11/15.

I first had this poem of mine published in 2001 in the Scotia Review magazine.  I had written it in the year 2000.
Jack Aylward May 2016
Sipping ice-lemon tea whilst
People watching....
Regardless of time
I float almost into a reverie
Not of dream but
Gently listening to the songs of the skylarks.

© Jack Aylward
     11th May 2016
I wrote this today on Facebook first as there was a post on the season Spring which others left some of their poems on Spring so I got inspired to write my own and this was the result! I got 5 likes in 10 mins and one comment! I just read it to Dad and he said "It sounds like you were drunk at the time when you wrote it"!!!
Jack Aylward Feb 2016
The ******, the gamblers, the killers
And the serial killers,
The psychos, the schizos, the villains.

The streets are *****.
The biggest ****** are in this city.

The streets are full of creeps.
The little shites
Walk up and down under street lights;
Licking the ***** of cheap ******
To whom money is a gun.

Dope dealers are priests.
Prostitutes that walk like wild caged beasts
Parading up and down the red
Light districts
Are desperate nuns looking for fun.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
The night dreams
And I am locked in.

Death speaks to me
Of love
On silken wings.

The grasses hush and weep....

I am terrified
To come out
Of my bedroom;
To open the door,
To go downstairs.

Shouting and arguing for hours
Is all I hear.

So instead I lie in bed reading
Or writing poetry,
Listening to Jimi Hendrix records.

- I lie there dreaming
Of happier times
That will never come.

©Jack Aylward,
16/4/12
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
Love is but a ghost;
So very hard to find.
It is but a smear;
A shadow lost.
It has found a new fear
It has shed its last tear.
Love is but a memory
Lost in the back of my mind;
A temporary
Illusion, a vision,
An addition
For loneliness that I sometimes appear
To escape into whilst awake at night;
Feeling confused I turn out the light.

©Jack Aylward
26th January 2004
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
Drowse, sink, escape
Until free to sleep
There you will fall deep
In love while the nape
Of your neck and the shape
Of it is softened by touching with a sweep
Of my pressing lips that creep
Towards yours. There your hair will drape;
Fold with light
As the lamp finds your face
And the fire finds the night
To where the moon finds its space;
There the desire to kiss will reach its height
And fade and leave without a trace.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
I long to be with you
To touch your memorable lips;
To make a connection
With the synchronization
Of our heartbeats.

I long to taste
Your kisses
Of morsecode
And leave
The rosebud to open up to our love
Between the centre of your
Gorgeous mouth.

©Jack Aylward,
4/4/14
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
Transparent glows of hue;
Like you
In the dew of light
Making love
Through
The blue
Of night.
Prisms
In your eyes
Prisms
On the bed,
In your heart,
In your soul.

The dreams you have kept
Are in a jar
Along with the sweet tears
You had wept
As they are swept
Into the air
Of promised shapes
And colours
Gleaming smoothly.

You lie there asleep
With your hair
In drapes of gold.
Prisms
On the ceiling
Prisms you hold
On the the nakedness
Of your *******,
In your heart,
In your mind.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
Woman who I love
Your mind is a book of poems,
Your poetry is a romantic window
To my heart.

You whose perfume is rose;
Lavender skin
Of pure naked love.

Your lips I long
To make love to
With my kiss of eclipses,
Of sonnets,
Of Chopin-noctornal
Jazz.

Your curves of sun and moon
I want to caress
With my generous body
As passionate lover.

I feel you.

Your mellifluent tongue
Weaves poetic gaelic songs
In the timbre of ****** voice.

Whose eyes like a forest
Of campanillas
My heart and gaze
Looks deep into;
Waiting for your response.

Your smiles and you're cuteness
Makes me want more.
I smile back.

Woman who I love,
I'm in awe.

©Jack Aylward,
26/1/14
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
Love unknown
Time to walk away.

I seem to collect
The loners and the losers
And they are all my lovers.

But this one I seem to want to forget
I don't know her
She doesn't know me.

Because of her
We walk the streets
Day and night
Like tramps
Unhinged with drink and drugs
And strange ***.

Unconnected
We drag
Ourselves
To our own mausoleum.

©Jack Aylward
Jack Aylward Oct 2016
I'll
Take
All
Loves
Yearning.

                                  ­         Jack Aylward,
                              2/10/16
First poem Iv'e written in a long time!!!! Had Poets block!!!!!!!!!!
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
As I sit upon my wooden pine bench
Cool air escapes
Across the lawn into the mists of dawn.
Perfumes
Are blown from the apple trees
As the fragrance reminded me of when I was a boy...

I would sit and play
With an old wooden toy
Soldier I named Troy....
But now the petals have faded away
And Troy, well he is gone too.
You can still smell the sweet perfumes
Like roses
From the sweet apples;
- That if you lay one of them in your hands;
Were as big as your fists.

The thick running juices as you bite
Into one
Brought happiness
To me and my father
Over the years
- Who has sadly passed away now.
I buried him beneath the willow tree
Upon a small hill
Looking down towards
The waterfall
- And above him the stars.

When it rained
In the morning
The water would rush into the waterfall
Where the vast amounts of water
Would deafen our ears
Like a non-stop avalanche
And the pink and white petals
From the apple blossom tree
Would glide and float through the small wind
Falling like a shower of confetti,
Covering the gigantic salmon that leapt.

Swallows scuttled
Through the leaning sky
Being free in their dreams
As the climbed through the painted sky.

The meadows mellow as could be
Stretched like never-ending green
Sacks of dreams in which such memories
Continued to echo throughout my youth.

And at night the nestled stars
Melted like running water
And would pour into the waterfall
From the hand that stretched out
To touch and hold them
And let them escape
To be free at last.

The fragrant pine trees
Left a scent of sweet oranges
And the roses:
A fragrance of strawberries
Rushed and fled into the air.....

How often is a breeze full of
Memories, perfumes, sometimes silence and
Sweet tunes?

- A swallow swiftly sings in freedom,
A lark let's out a wonderous sound of bells,
A swift bends in the wind,
A thrush proudly sings the mourning alarm.

©Jack Aylward
This is a poem that still needs work on its syntax but I hope that you will like it anyway.
Jack Aylward Oct 2015
Beauty is under surveillance
The night-watchers are in keep
The guns are being cocked
The clocks are already timed
And their watches synchronized to a T.
They walk the streets day and night
In their droves of silence. Only the rain
You can hear.
They wait; searching in cafés,
In bars and clubs, restaurants alike,
Anywhere sociable.
They even wait in people's homes
Till that certain person or persons
They are looking for arrives or not.
They wait and sometimes wait and wait.
If you look out of your window
You can see
The snipers in the trees.
You can see them standing
On the rooftops
In their long black raincoats.
At night all you see is the
Search-lights parading up and down
The streets and onto people's homes;
Evading their privacy,
Trespassing their minds.

©Jack Aylward
I was inspired to write this poem after reading the novel: '1984' by the author George Orwell

— The End —