she is coming to our gardens very soon
she'll have a paintbox of colors so bright
her vividness will be a spectacular boon

she'll splash some purple and orange light
on trellises and pathways to add her glee  
she'll have a paintbox of colors so bright

pink blossoms she'll place on the plum tree
twill make the bees hum a happy refrain
on trellises and pathways to add her glee

spring's lively lass is returning once again
every part of our gardens beautifully decorated
twill make the bees hum a happy refrain

birds shall twitter at what she has painted
her glorious canvas shall be a delight to see
every part of our gardens beautifully decorated

she'll have a vivacious palette to spree
her glorious canvas shall be a delight to see
she is coming to our gardens very soon
her vividness will be a spectacular boon

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

Death descends like the statement of a credit card;
life goes on in eight columns, sometimes six,
dropping out should have been an option, instead my
world is turning pages while I am just sitting here
listening to atrophy whisper through a megaphone:
“It’s better to fade away than to burn out, let
champagne supper turn to bile by breakfast, bark up a
fake plastic lemon tree till she hurls pomo grenades at you.”
The streetlife serenade is recklessly tempting,
in the club the girls in ***** shirts come and go,
talking of Felu, Neru, Derri… da, what inertia!
Sitting in a club with so many fools(,) playing to rules,
Hell is a blank generation with no vacancy,
I’m doubting Thom: meeting people isn’t easy,
Them clones in rubber souls from fab India
try to impale me right next to the paintbox,
In she walks, head going nowhere close to the oven,
eyes me like a Pisces riding shotgun on a WAG,
says growing older in the rain ought not be done all alone.
Bring on the moonshine, dancing days are here again!
Happiness was Scotch Mist, now it’s suddenly a goal,
It’s past AM on a holiday, do I wanna know if this
isn’t, like always, just un-certain platonish bromance?
Or will she journey with me till the end of the night?
Optimism is fleeting, afraid to commit, tends to elope,
Pray that she lingers long enough: I need a feel-good poem.
There’s a restaurant at the end of the universe,
I’ve heard the well-done steak they serve is actually rare
but their awesomesauce can make us live forever,
we can make it there in time if we slide away right now,
and if in the morning we don’t know what to do,
I’ll toast the bread, I’ll make the bed, she can make my day.

she is coming to our gardens very soon
she'll have a paintbox of colors so bright
her vividness will be a spectacular boon

she'll splash some purple and orange light
on trellises and pathways to add her glee
she'll have a paintbox of colors so bright

blossoms of pink and cerise shall be on trees
it'll make the bees hum in a happy refrain
on trellises and pathways to add her glee

spring's lively lass is returning once again
every part of our gardens beautifully decorated
it'll make the bees hum in a happy refrain

birds shall twitter at what she has painted
her glorious canvas shall be a delight to see
every part of our gardens beautifully decorated

she'll have a vivacious palette to spree
her glorious canvas shall be a delight to see
she is coming to our gardens very soon
her vividness shall be a spectacular boon

I’m sitting here drunk on stolen ***
Staring at the bottle I’ve been drinking from
Empty of virtue, empty of sin
Wishing for a swig of hundred-year gin.
My thoughts are wandering, or nonexistent,
Anything that comes is insufficient.
It’s just a craving to fill a space
Left by someone who stole my taste.
It’s not the juice that has me tipsy
Considering I’ve been playing gypsy
Travelling to nowhere, dragging my heart
Watching my soul being spread apart.
It’s the fear of falling, both in love and out,
Never knowing what you’re about.
It’s the sense of drowning, of being pulled under,
Of feeling the crash but empty of thunder,
The mixed interactions, the constant rash questions,
Attempting to sprint nine different directions,
Seeing you write all the truths I’ve been told
Then watching each lie slowly gently unfold.
It’s sickening me, I thought I knew you
Until I saw your true colors come through.
I felt secure, as though I had sight
Dancing and kissing under forty watt light
Singing and laughing, feeling your touch,
Then experiencing the words “this is too much.”
It’s like standing on concrete and feeling it crack
Opening a paintbox and finding all black.
I’m so over this game, this half-hearted living
Falling for feelings that aren’t so forgiving
But I can’t seem to detach myself from the curse
It’s a destructive addiction, and it only gets worse.
I’m not even angry, I don’t even want blood,
I’m just sick of feeling like I’m running in mud
So I need some protection, a blanket I’ve sewn
Of lessons I’ve learned and people I’ve known.
It’s not that I’m fearful, I still want the passion,
I’m just not getting trampled by your misguided actions.
In a sense I’m surrounded, my heart’s walls are high
But I’m willing to open if you’re willing to try.
Don’t think that you have to be perfect for me
Just tell me the truth, allow me to see.
We can even forget to give it a name
Friendly but physical, I can play that game
Just whatever you do, don’t call it love
Cause that isn’t the feeling I was thinking of.
If we can be honest, we can be friends
But as far as I care, that’s where it ends.
So as I huddle alone, soft focused with wine
No sense of direction, just killing time
I expose my still heart, and find it rubbed raw
From escaping the weight of confusion’s cold claw
I’m drinking it numb, constricting the light
Fervently sipping the froth of a pint
It makes me uneasy, but goes down like silk
As though I’m gulping thick sweetened milk
I need a sense of emotional healing
But crave the completeness of warm unfeeling
I want to get high, but then it’s easy to fall
Deliciously nervous then crushed from it all
So I’d rather shoot whisky, let it burn down my throat
Contemplate every ****** I wrote
Purposefully killing whatever’s inside
So I can forget about it, stop trying to hide
Each time I felt stupid, each time I got ******
Gripping for something that didn’t exist.
But don’t think this stopped me, I’ll sober up soon
But you’ll always be hung-over past noon.
Your selfishness suits you, so I guess the ultimate test
Is seeing whose love life comes out for the best.
I’m not one for pining, I’ve had my last drink
Contrary to what ever **** you might think
I’m telling you otherwise, if you think that I care
Please get over yourself and try growing a pair.

When the water melted on the pond
The ducks slept in the green reeds
The moorhens, fluffy black, red beak
Kept close to their mother for warmth.

We hope for the bulbs to shoot bright
Knocking the world with lightening
The colour of sunshine in a paintbox
And all will be well for another year.

Love Mary xxxx

Steel blue clouds are rumpled across
The morning sky, looking ever so much
Like an ocean ******* at low tide.
That’s not a color in my paintbox,
And I struggle hard to make a match,
Never quite succeeding.
The jagged mountains are a breeeze -
Black against the morning sky.
The desert landscape spread below
Defies the choosing of a tube or tubes
To mix the multitide of shades of gray.
It doesn’t matter anyway, I hear the thunder,
And see the flash that tells me
Rain will wet my canvas faster than
I Can pack it up and run for home
          ljm