Trains at the bottom of the garden
metal dragons breathing out smoke and steam
huffing and puffing, waiting for the signal
some compact with tanks affixed
others larger, more grand
pulling colour matched tenders
sometimes bearing shields and names
beginning with 'Duchess' or 'City'
mostly black, some rusty
deep reds or greens
with contrasting lines edged in gold

Once one came in matt pink
and I wondered why it didn't gleam
like the others, perhaps pink
was a colour not to be given
it's equal due with other
less feminine shades
it had to be denied vibrancy
yet I loved the pink one best
later I learned somehow
that the colour was that
of the primer used
to inhibit the rust
and my pink engine
was just an unfinished paint job
pressed into service
prematurely to give cover
for another that was broken

I wrote down the numbers regardless
it was a ritual that one performed
though I didn't understand why
yet it was exciting
to record a new one
that hadn't passed before

Behind the business end
came carriages laden heavy
with the visitors of summer
come to fill our beaches
and our town with their loudness
their raucous laughter
with strange accents
brummie, scouse, mancunian
faces pressed against glass
expectant, excited, impatient
almost there now
anxious that this last delay
pass quickly and the half mile
remaining be completed

We would lurk beneath the bridge
like adopted troll children
it was cool there in the summer heat
darting out from behind pillars
or in my case watchfully, cautiously
edging my way forward
to place pennies on the track
or sometimes nails
then to retrieve them
flattened, thinned, squashed
once the train had passed
sometimes we'd wait hours
or so it seemed
sometimes no train would come
and we would trail home
for tea and bath and bed
leaving our offerings
to the gods of the rail
for rediscovery and inspection
the following day.

Cynthia Pauline Jones 17/10/13

I am suffocated by your love
Arms now constrict rather than protect
All you want is to be my everything
But I have more to live for than you
I am reminded every moment of your presence
even when you are not there
Eyeing watchfully over my shoulder
I wish I could tell you you love me as much as I
But in respect, I cannot lie
You are not a bad person, but a bad person for me
Ready to nestle down in to love
satisfied with what this is imminent to be
I'm not ready to be loved as much as you love me

She was a spectacular tree.
People called her the flame of the forest,
for she was obviously striking, vivid and classy.

I need not narrate the superlative majesty
of the flame – tree, for one time or the other
we have all been breath-taken by her peerless glamor.

What matchless artistry!

I am here to quickly share
my ruminative gloom for that lovely assembly
of flower, leaf and wood, which grandly stood
in a grove of possibilities, and possibilities can be
such a torment, such a calamity.

❋

For years galore, caterpillars of choices
had been steadily eating away at her core.
They came from different directions,
at different trajectories,
with varied objectives
and fluctuating proclivities.

Sometimes, they came rushing in as family,
and sometimes they came slowly,
a little formally, a bit watchfully,
somewhat officially.

At times they came in fiery fascination
and yet, ever so often, they were charged
with marauding indignation.

Many times they arrived as blazing ambition,
but more often than not, combusted the flamboyance
leaving behind an ashen illusion.

Oh.....those craving larvae
of oblique, wily opportunities.

❋

The foliage was feverishly guzzled
till photosynthesis was no more possible.
From my distant window from where I had once
watched her variegated flair,
I felt the Poinciana moan in simmering despair.

❋

With biting sensitivity, I still look on, a tad tearfully,
as she continues to tumble into conscious torpidity.

My words may slip and sway, as with each wilting leaf
after each withering floret, she progresses towards
an abject decay;
imploding methodically, and transposing gradually
from being the flame of the forest
to being a sprouting forest of flames.

Let yourself not be misled by the notes
that fall to you from the generous wind.

Wait watchfully. Hands that are eternal
may come to play upon your strings.**

Early Journals

They were fairy dust against an onyx velvet sky.
Truly, they were magical.
Generations told generations that they hold an eons world of wishes and hopes.
Stars; a sight to behold.

Above the Eiffel Tower with a soothing quiet, that is when they are best, and a certain duo appreciated them;
however, from diverse perspectives.

This woman, bless her for her feats of finding her path, dangled her feet from the tower while breathing in bliss and exhaling bothersome worries.
The chill of the air nipped her cheeks like childish pecks.
Her soul was at a state of calm, a break over her exhilarating life, both formal and ccarefree, and problematic conflicts. All the while, she was with her best friend, this man.
He too relaxed under the night sky.
His hyper heart gradually receded into a slow beat.
Closing his eyes, he welcomed the motherly rocking of the midnight breeze.

"Don't they look enchanting?"

He lazily peered over. "Whatever do you mean, M'lady?"

"Isn't it obvious?" The woman extended her hand outwards towards the atmosphere as if she could touch that mysteries that lay in them. "The stars."

"Well," he pondered, "Not as much as your striking beauty."

The lady scoffed and jokingly slapped his arm.
She bore into his eyes, telling them to see clearly before gazing back into the eternal universe.

"My mother always told me, like any other, that if you wish on one, they'll come true. People think it's silly," she chuckled, "But I honestly believe she is right."

"Really?" He quirked. "I never knew you believed in something so childish."
He poked his partner in the rib.
"Those are myths made to make human have false hope."
Breathing in the night air he sighed,
"They are just elegant, cheap decorations in the beauty of the night."

She raised an eyebrow in annoyance.
"How so?" She added,
"You usually would enjoy these kinds of insight."

A shivering feeling of the bitter cold of the past settled upon them.
The charisma in the playful man's eyes hardened into regret.
"Well, M'lady, when reality smacks you in the face," he spat at the air, as if he could insult the imaginary being he hated so,
"You realize there is nothing pure and lovely in the world."

He raked his hair with his hand to calm himself from the tension of a long-locked secret threatening to open up.
"They're up there for centuries burning bright for the galaxy around them, always sacrificing,"
He traces a floating leave before grabbing and crumbling it,
"Yet, they explode and die like every life that appeared on this earth." He concluded, looking down at the illuminated city below his feet.

The man felt a hand on his shoulder,
light and graceful,
take hold and a finger pointing his chin up and then
at the dizzying lights above.

"That may be," she started,
"But with every death, there comes a new life,"
she smiled softly at him, "A new destiny."

Dumbfounded, the feline laughed quietly,
amazed on how his beloved always had a argument against his claims.
"Alas, I can't oppose to that statement. Well played, Ladybug."

He laid down on his back and exhaled a thoughtful sigh.
He went to take rest until he sensed fingers combing through his golden locks.
It shocked him to see the woman he always pitifully longed for show a bit of affection. He gazed at her with wide eyes.
Watchfully, he observed every detail of her petite face and
large, wonderful eyes.
They were like the night sky itself.
Ah, he mused to himself, The reason to her hope must lay in there.

As such ideas came in to his head, the woman was trying to build one herself on how her usually energetic partner can think up of something so,
so dead and draining.
She twirled a curl of his hair, fussing why she couldn't have hair like that.
Suddenly, fingers foreign to her body slipped through hers.
The teen immediately looked at the culprit,
but he was busy idly taking in the way her hands fit into his and
the spectators above in the heavens.

"You know," he murmured before she could react anymore to his actions,
"I used to have whimsical theories about the stars."
He chortled, amusing himself that he ever used be so fantasy-consumed.
"I believed that every star represented a person.
"Every second," he took a more serious tone,
"A star would take its leave.
Everything must die or disappear one day, as said before. Yet, a new would be born.
A flicker of hope for humankind."
He closed his eyes and admitted to his lady,
"I always wondered my star was."

"Then," he sobered once more,
"I realized I was wrong as time came to me and
greeted me to life."

"Well," the woman whispered lovingly,
wanting her words to have a meaning to them, to him,
"What if you were right all along?
Don't abandon and doubt that idea.
It's something that should be common knowledge."

Before thinking of the consequences, she gave planted her lips upon his forehead, making him almost frozen in surprise.
She rested her cheek against her and her partner's interlocked hands.
"I will be your star."

For the first time, the man let himself have faith in something so fairytale-like.
He kissed the back of their hands and blissfully breathed,
"It is a pure honor, M'lady."

With that, the celestial dome above seemed to glow brighter,
approving of their newfound role to play.

Stars drift lazily
over the peaceful dark pond
and shine watchfully

Gentle moon whispers
hazy lullabies of calm
that will tranquilize

Owls hoot their wisdom
so worlds will rest untroubled
cocooned in shadows

There are places still on this planet where
No man has ever trod,
That lie so deep in the undergrowth,
Put there by the grace of God,
And denizens lie there, watchfully
In guarding their holy place,
Intruders enter but never return
As part of the human race.

The earth entangles and trips their feet
When they stray from near and far,
And vines entwine in a blink of time
To tether them where they are,
While briars inject as they’re taking root
Seep poison into their veins,
To leave them dank with their eyes so blank
With what human thought remains.

I saw you wandering aimlessly
Too close to the place of God,
And followed you inconspicuously
Or you might have thought it odd,
And when you stumbled and almost fell
At the edge of their secret wood,
I found and slashed at the vines that bound
In that alien neighbourhood.

I lured you out of the convent walls
And I sought to take you home,
You raised your head in confusion, said
That all roads lead to Rome,
I said, ‘You’re throwing your life away
For the drear of a lonely cell,
But life is there to be lived, my love,
Or all roads lead to Hell.’

The Penguins came to collect you, tried
To bind you with former vows,
And flapped their wings at your reason
Using what force the law allows,
I slammed the door in my silent war
On their medieval taint,
And hoped you’d say that you’d marry me,
Though I never wanted a saint!

It’s been a year and I see you stare
Each time that we pass their gate,
Wondering if you should be there
But I thank God, it’s too late,
Our daughter bubbles with life, and grins
As a child of God, she should,
I’d rather her path was paved with sins
Than led to their secret wood.

David Lewis Paget

Somberly walks he
Ever watchfully
Slowly
on drying leaves,
dying thieves
of dormant trees.
Sacred are these
that summer leaves
her memories
of hopeless dreams
that soon will freeze.
Let it be
and silently
forget about me
so you can see
the mystery
of yonder trees
Whom you believe,
for whom you grieve,
and around them weave
through weeds
whose seed
you spread as you flee
with speed
away from he
who stands peacefully
among the trees
and next to me.

what is the what, this simplicity, the great difference?


                                                ­  ~~<>~~
he reads certain words,^ then

the poet uncovered, stumbles upon, a rhythmic bearing, provoked,
his own bearing now  lost in contemplation, exits the cottage, wandering on the always wet grass, observed by animal menagerie,
espy him watchfully, a human directionless wanderer wondering, asking himself the meaning of it all, knowing answers reserved not him

we celebrate subtlety, process the minutiae of extracting an exactitude of  the precious précis of each momentary why, only when he honest confesses his ineptitude, can he truly begin to pluck words from the airy atmosphere to assemble them in format that mines the great difference in everything, the differential veins

the creatures, unshy, wish to contribute, suggesting editions, subtractions, this turn, this twist, this nuance, always clarifying, valuing utility beauteous, making the meaning perfectly clear in ways that make you gasp at words, their powerful, to define, then refine, then just plain be, be fine, finding, exploiting, drawing freehand the lines of distinction exacting
this great differences
                                                  ~­~<>~~
^
“and next to nothing is everything, all worth knowing,
you, write my poetry, as I write of you with breathless
ease and comfort, for the thoughts of all men in all
ages and lands, are original to where our eyes espy
each other, where our lips kiss to cross, cross to kiss,
what is the what, this simplicity, the great differences?”

Noon. The desertsun is sitting at the summit of the sky,
glaring at the endless sands that span in front her firey eye
and there´s not a single cloud around her that she must condone,
just a squad of squawking storks is floating neath her golden throne.
Like a boat that´s built of birds, in search for cypresscrowns to land
which resemble scattered islands in this silent sea of sand.

At a waterhole´s a warthog, noticed by the nearest croc,
drinking calmly from the pond, but suddenly: A state of shock.
Fleeing flocks of rhimgazelles. A turtle imitates a rock.
And the victims bleeding nose is caught inside a lethal lock.
Groups of kudus, gnus, baboons who ring their roaring warning bells
and the arid air is full of fear and dust and death and yells.

In the distance sits and listens watchfully a fennec fox,
sheltered by a fence of thorns, upon a pile of desert rocks.
Covered under cactusshades decays a lonely nomads bone,
where the lazy lizards lie in cool and cosy homes of stone;
and the sun, relaxed as ever, crawls along her wonted trail,
like a glowing, cyclopean, billion-year-old cosmic snail.

The striped beast
In the forest of east
Has just made a ****
In the wintry chill
A hungry bite
In the eerie quiet...

She hears the noise
Of jeeps and boys
Whisper amidst trees
Murmur of leaves
She wants to eat
But has to retreat
To the nearby hideout
Till the gypsy goes out...

Peace dawns at last
She devours fast
She has to feed
Her cubs are in need
For her quick return
Are unable to run
Shut eyed newborns
Feeble small moans...

She looks up to find
Shadows lurking behind
Endless clicking sounds
She quickly rebounds
To the bushes dense
Her anger is intense
Crowd waits quietly
She hides patiently
Stubbornness wins
The crowd now thins
Not a jeep in sight
She just won a fight...

She drags the meal
To keep it conceal
From preying eyes
In the bushes high
She is back to rest
Cubs on her breast
She licks her little litter
Warmth in cold bitter
Her nose sniffs the air
The eyes watchfully dare
The perils of the forest
As she with her cubs rest
Amidst the sun in the fog
A mother is on her duty log....

A powerful hunter, of varied species

Watchfully gazing, they perch on high

Eyesight of excellence, strong hooked beak

Awaiting your prey, vultures, a splendid relation

Incredible wingspan, as they take flight

Found near water, perched on feathered legs

Fish a-plenty, hunting ground

Boot, harpy, snake, fish and sea

Of four divisions so they belong

Rainforests, deserts, coasts thy be found

Of almost every habitat

Foraging for food

Make way to the nest

Eyries of the ledge, frequently of the trees

Align thy grass, twigs and leaves

Display a valid courtship

Allocate thy mate

Somersault with might and weight

Protect thine eggs, chicks will hatch

Be guarded, vulnerability be aware

Return thy food, to motherly shelter

Protect from snakes, ravens, racoons

Promote survival, train thy young

Eagle calls across thy territory

Attention thus occupied

With wings outstretched

Take thy stand



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©