Perhaps there is a dragon palace somewhere
flowing with emerald scales, where ice-colored
sunlight rings in the wind, where soundless
mountains hide their bare faces in purple shadows.

This world, a transparent garment ,
blushes with the seagull’s shriek,
pales with the dove’s soft coo,
brightens with seasons singing
newness, clouds with the heart’s
sorrows.

The music of colors invades
the senses, scarlet sopranos,
jade’s deep base, distant ringing
of silver planets. rainbow banners
that gossip in the wind.

An arpeggio of colored sounds,
each unique in its own tone,
from the lullaby
of sunset to the ****** of
dawn’s glacier blue.

Seeing, hearing, naming,
assembling, each sensation
to its own order of allure.

all my past
      imposes on my breath today

i enter a grand mosaic public building
        and on goes my medical face mask
i join the back of the queue with my documents in one hand
            and my numbered butcher ticket
                          in the other
i admire the mosaics
               a jarring tide of art against the bureaucratic purpose
                     of these rooms
gauzed in with own product exhaust
       all my past  is attending    
exhumed
  patted  into my breath
    baiting remembrance with unsubtle notes
for example :
   integrated spittings of 'drum' tobacco (i quit a decade ago)
horning catches of cologne every boy used as a teen
seasonal scents  unweaned from deep in my system
(some reigned in from the different countries
                                                    i lived in or visited)
then i am frisked back to infancy   with breast milk and rusks
it's all there    a basking flippancy
all there in musk about my face
  one fragrance after another

it's an honest relief
     to host an alternative to my 'old man' breath
           but odd and concerning
something of the brain ?

As I sit on this cold bench
In nature,
Twilight rising,
Feeling the crisp biting air,
Smelling the dampness of the leaves,
Sensing and finding solace in the space all around me,
I am reminded of a similar November evening as a child,
Where I stayed out as long as possible on my own,
Imagining adventures,
Enjoying the moment,
And the assault on my senses,
Until too much dark had descended,
And mum called me in.

Only the smell of a bonfire is missing now,
And no one to call me back in.

I'm fully present,

my body, all my senses --


here, in this garden.

Would the alehoof and

creeping-flower wish to flee?


From my weeding hand?

(a sonnet in iambic pentameter)

I was drawn to you, from the first instant
something about you aroused my senses
a message unspoken, and insistent
that could somehow bypass my defenses.

I couldn’t show it, you couldn’t know it,
so I sat quietly and ignored you.
When chasing dreams, love is unbefitting
this I’d been told, and so, it must be true.

When I met you again, you were funny,
not what I assumed, you were something new.

Hashtag, as a boyfriend, he’s been money,
such was the start of our kissing booth truth.

my emotions dread for peace
this space is so tight
I seem lifeless

why prickly numb and burning
are my toes writing a story
spare me a niddle to escape

For my fears are dead
Today I question life
Now I got my answer

Live today
Live today
Live today

(c) Olu Daniels -KUVAR

Live! Not dying
like all the sad-eyed people
but like the dog
that dances in the window

Wake up and look
There's sun, there's stars
there's daisies
and it swirls
in your ***

Wake up to a poem
Your blood flows
Spring comes and
there's bread in the oven

I'm not saying anything new
My words are clear
as water, as your soul
The sea falls and rises
but man is cruel