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
Poetry
Weekly prompt
Mothmen spread their wings
the wild in us felt the breath of them
Lollipops muddied where we left
blueberry gasps
rushed from blue tongues
corn syrup unhinged us
sugarcane legs
our boots tracked sepia
fabric conditioned into terror
monsters had plagued the washin’ line
Authors note:
I have no idea what I’m doing.
A Garrulous Old Chap
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
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
A Bastion Of Bastards
I’m Walter Gorbet
Thee call me Gorbert Sideburns
I’ve been led down’t garden path
much to my chagrin I’ve found only deserts of nothin’
in a nation of supposed nature lovers!
Suburbia ate the hedges and put in fences
we’re all enclosed like zoo animals
neighbours look out’t windows of their fish tanks
watch me wildin’t’ streets with me webbed feet
Comes to think of it, there is no such thing as zoo animals
as if they’re a kind, a species made for vitrification for us t’ look through
I’m mighty tired o’ this country to be honest with ya
I’ve said before to paint me white with a red cross
bangin’ on about me englishness
but I thought some about it and I’ve come to a conclusion
under’t guardianship of englishmen i’d be killed as a weed
fer wiltin’t’ wrong way!
So what can I say?
We’re a bastion of bastards if ever there were any!
Summer festival
The sky festooned himself with chandeliers of birds
Alighting himself with reflection
Prowling with a blur of breeze he searched and reached for hats to adorn his steeple
Dancing with a flutter and swirl
He painted the earth yellow and green
with summer festival.
Mr Theo Sauri
I’m becoming a civilised old chap
under the tutelage of my old pal – chum, Mr Theo Sauri
His face – countenance is grey – griseous with contempt
for the whims – vagaries of my tongue
to which he does suppose
‘The words of the devil were spawned’
I articulated to the best of my ability that I am not one to be bedevilled
to which scorn was his adequate response
though he held his tongue Thank God
for I could read in his mien, mercurial shades of distaste
standing before me, a crimson cardinal.
I bowed my reverence and thanked him thusly
for cultivating me from weed to rose
and thus I forthwith blush with prose.
Pink Fiasco
Plumes of nascent rumour dispersed by a breath of wind
Whispers abuzz with pollinators.
Straggling the walls, you bloomed
pink fiasco blush.
Detritus & Rain
The clouds loomed low from the clothesline
hung out to dry
An omnipresent dread preached a pregnant silence
holding us awry
whorls smeared windows
trying to put our fingers on it
this thing amiss in our lives
the streets rustled with paper and plastic bags
time passing slowly, interminable
the roads wore a sheen reflecting traffic lights
nothing was astir but for white cloaks of bags willowing on the air
with long fell swoops arching as a bird
flying on the wings of an impenetrable blur
a predator in concert
a plastic pterosaur
before falling, inert.
Grief is a Crow
He’s the spirit of the greyest days
When he’s not perched on the mound
To watch the body go underground
Light glinting in his trickster eyes
He’s the jester of the skies
Sometimes, he is grief
Spiralling from the clouds
Hearts beating with the beat of his wings
Heavy is the black cloak and gown
Something sweeping us
From bare remembrance
To make us look up at the stars
While we bear our reverence
He’ll make us laugh in spite of our severence
Catwalking down the runway
With chic elegance
Feathers softening the senselessness
Grief is a crow
And crow is benevolence.
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