Poetry

The grind

Matt9 Comments

We were twine o’ thread knottin’ time
bent us snaggle toothed spines needlin’ at the grind

We were fusty with British stiff upper lip
with sabre toothed vanity, mining us extraterrestrial in coal an’ lime needlin’ at the grind

We dreamed o’ greenin’ the land
cigarettes chained to us ‘ands needlin’ at the grind

We erased that which we wished to glimpse
In a trailblaze of exhaust fumes, steerin’ the grind

We extolled the land by mouth
And demarcated it with the other ‘and steelin’ uselve’s fer the grind

An attempt at this week’s W3

Sunflower night

Matt12 Comments

Sunflowers push through whack-a-mole ‘oles
In’t night sky
Golden flowered stars blurred by eyes
An airscape t’ feast time
Puffs o’ cloud scryin’ t’morrows sunrise
Droopin’ petals.                                     rainin’ golden blossom.

Inspired by prompt

Also inspired by Van Gogh paintings, where I mixed up ideas from two of his paintings in my head to write this.

Maybe you can guess which ones?

Limmerence

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fuchsia veils, flamingo hushed
Clematis that don’t care fer seasons blushed
we danced infatuation lust
till we went limp like foxgloves
Scarlet buds awaited us bloom
tobacco, wood and musk
smells of yorn in which I crushed
creasin’ silken streams
comin’ lose at the seams
Abashed in thrall
fallin’ as leaves meant to fall
fallin’, fallin’
tottering at the peak of flush
crawlin’, forestallin’
A scorpion romance bawlin’
red in black maw squallin’
liminal space gallin’
silence after storms rushed
solstitial distance between us
fallin’ fallin’
The loneliness of limerence, hushed

A Garrulous Old Chap

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There was this garrulous old chap
he wore a beige cape with blue dotted lines at the wings of it
he talked a fine tune
but I’d be damned if I could cipher it
he smoked a pipe and the smoke would billow up to his bright blue eyes
as If to make a point of them.

He was a town crier
by which I mean that rather literally
screeching his woes with a guttural wind
leaving a discordant note in his wake
but I loved him besides all that
It’s wasn’t just the gems in his eyes
it’s the way he smiled
and the way he buried me nuts in his garden.

Sunday Whirl: A touch of sadness

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A touch o’ the ol’ sadness labelled us pelts
Ya can trace ya finger down’t tracks o’ crows feet
But don’t let yaself linger
ya might come’t know the legends that mark’t skin within
a life well laughed despite
the melancholia that tends t’ turn the wheel
I’m bundled in.

Me rags o’ flesh ‘old forests
much of a muchness
needlin’ pinetrees
Pine sap, my tears, the plantation weeps