I held the bloom to my breast, anticipating the strong vibrant energy that one gets with a bright red-headed wildflower. I took care to protect her delicate petals, yet the blossom wilted. My spirits fell, inadequacy prevailed. I had destroyed her with my delusion.
There’s no-one there
to wipe away my tears.
No-one to care
who’ll alleviate my fears.
There’s no tender voice
to tell me it’s okay.
I made my choice
to walk the other way.
Away from the one
who could not tell
how I flew into the sun,
to await the tolling knell.
Death has become me
I can hear its call.
I sense the urgency,
feel the pressing pall.
As a stake is driven
deep into my soul,
love and life are riven,
out of my control.
Hold out your hands,
call me to your realm;
to far off meadowlands
to rest beneath the elm.
There, to lay at peace;
no more this weary world,
where once, upon my knees,
the angry daemons whirled.
Williamleeone asked: “Have you seen my sock?”
I reply with the lyrics of a song I wrote a couple of years ago for a prompt, “Science”. I’ve never given it a chorus, and I’ll let the reader decide if it stands alone as a poem.
Matter doesn’t matter much to me
I’d rather look at stuff that I can’t see
And whilst this may seem like a paradox
It could explain what happened to my socks
Everything is in superposition
Neither here nor there until volition
And when you look it all snaps into place
Instead of hanging out in outer space
Nothing is the matter you might think
Your table, chairs, your cooker, kitchen sink
Empty space, mostly, all of that
Even you, your dog, your hamster, cat
Some days, when I choose to entertain
Assuming that my guests have half a brain
I’ll feed their minds with Schrödinger and Bohr
Until their fascination cries out, “More! More! More!”
And then I’ll pull out my best parlour game
Plancking – but it might not be the same
As lying down all flat like a beached whale
It’s similar, but on a smaller scale
Much, much smaller than the eye can see
But matter not, that’s how it’s meant to be
I do like thinking right outside the box
And it helps a little when I lose my socks
Yes, it helps a little when I lose my socks
Featured image: Me and the Poetic Moose busking at The Art House, 2013.
Disclaimer: I am not a scientist.
He knelt before her and slipped the golden box out from his back pocket, opening it slowly. A diamond ring lay nested within the red velvet – delicate, perfect.
She began to cry. Tears as rivulets flowed down her reddened cheeks.
Whilst she longed to grab him passionately, say yes and live a happily ever after fantasy, she turned away from him. He wasn’t hers; would never be hers. His heart would always belong to another.
She didn’t look back. She ran forward into the past, towards the one who truly loved her.
Inspired by a post on Poesy Plus Polemics
In Shakespeare’s town, the U.S. flag flies on a house that Tom built.
Intricate wooden carvings of long-gone craftsmen adorn,
within and without, studded and standing the test of time.
A little dog greets those who care to take a closer look.
To Adlestrop, bombarded by wasps
A brief stop at the bus stop
Just time to read the poem within.
Then all at once I did espy
a treasure that would pass most by –
a beauty for the eye to behold –
Adjourn to forest
Crisp leaf carpet underfoot
Release of the hounds
Splash and drink from muddy waters
Play peekaboo from behind mossy trees
Was anyone around when this one fell?
We walked for miles, and yet,
despite forewarning in verse,
I did not heed what I should,
and was quickly swallowed by the mud.
I thought it might be fun to do a little Q & A, alongside my run-of-the-mill About Me page.
However, it seems a bit cheaty to make up the questions myself, so it’s over to you beautiful people to come up with some creative questions for me 🙂
You can buy me diamonds,
you can speak your sweet words,
but you can’t buy my love –
that needs to be earned.
You can give me things;
what I long for is time.
You can spend it on others,
but you’re wasting mine.
My life is my own
and I’ll do what I do.
Now the end has come –
it’s me, but not you.
So, pack up your troubles
in your old kit bag.
Kiss the house goodbye;
drive off in your Jag.
Hurry on back to momma –
she’ll cook; wash your clothes.
She’ll do all the things
that you yearn for the most.
I’m through with being
your surrogate wife
while you sow your wild oats –
this is no kind of life.
I’ll be fine on my own;
absolutely, I’ll fly –
Caressing the moon
and touching the sky.
I’ll be free from this cage
that’s gilded with nought
but a coating of rust
and nerves that are fraught
by the games that you play
when you think I can’t see.
I’ve got news for you – don’t
I am strong; I’ll survive
on my faith in above
and a heart that I’m saving
for the truest of Love.
I came across this form of poetry on the Two Paise Poems blog. 2PP (my nickname for her) is a wonderful poet who always writes a little piece on the style she has used for each poem (very educational and a great source of prompts). She is on bed rest at the moment, so why not pop along and say hello to cheer her up a little.
Pleiades is a seven-line stanza using the first letter of the one-word title for the start of each line – so I’ve written four and linked them together.
“Spare a penny for a cup o’ char, miss?”
She looked at his vagabond’s attire;
stopped to chat for a while;
stared into his empty cup.
Sensing his sincerity,
stooped to place a crisp note within.
Sobbing, she said goodbye.
(Meanwhile, in a parallel universe)
“Give me all your money, bitch!”
Gazed down the barrel of his gun;
Gasped as his wide eyes threatened –
glazed and drug-fuelled –
glaring into her very soul.
Gingerly, she handed over the crisp notes.
Gently, she said goodbye.
(When universes collide)
“How much did you get, bro?”
“Hardly enough for a meal – twenty.”
Hands flash twice to signal.
“How about you? All she had?”
“Hey! What can I say? I was packin’ a pistol.”
Heated words ensue. One dollar bills.
“Holy crap! She only had ten!”
Many would rather give to the poor;
men (and women) who, from the floor,
make a moral, if not tragic, living.
Mindful of the feelings of others;
massage the emotions of those who pass by.
Maintaining clarity of thought – cup, not cap, in hand,
maybe, they’ll be milliners one day.
The words pour from your heart;
torrential outpouring of feelings
with little thought to substance.
Your words flow on the page;
raging rivers of expressions
you long to forget.
ink-blotted tearstains of regret.
The words blur in the rain;
blue-streaked papier mâché form
thrown without elegance
into the storm;
lost to the elements.
Picture credit: Casablanca
We collaborate, he and I
We often laugh until we cry
We’re silly almost every day
We act, we sing, we write, we play
We text each other funny lines
And always… well, maybe sometimes…
They fit together like hand in glove
As we do too, we share our love
Of words and fun and music, too
Creating things to share with you
And with this love, our hearts do sing
(Click for our latest offering)