Writing about the creative life and the stories all around us
listen:
Cheerful daisies turn their faces upwards.
Big sun, bright heart reflected in egg yolk centres
And mirrored in the humblest things.
Life energy lights the sky
and falls to earth, yet not diminished.
Instead its littler twin multiplies its force.
As above, so below.
For what I see, I can be.
And though I am ever so small
the universe
is contained within me.
Listen to this poem:
Blood running hot, and never cold
it presses forward, always bold
calling us on to run and fight
propelling legs as they take flight
and for one moment stop and think.
Then the next instant to the brink
of madness.
The red eyes are blind
to all that’s gentle, good or kind.
A teasing swish, matador’s cape
will goad the bull. There’s no escape
from spears embedded in his back
that prod him to futile attack.
And down his skin run rivers red,
his life poured out and painted dead.
We feel the ruby pulsing heat
within our chests with every beat
of every crazed deluded heart,
so sure that this is just the start
of something lasting, fine and true,
of you and me.
I always knew
that red would overwhelm this love.
Though lovers gaze at stars above
and whisper declarations soft,
these ideals that they hold aloft
soon fall to earth.
Nothing to say.
Unbridled passions win the day
over mere intellectual words
when feelings fly like scattered birds
and reason flees.
All that remains
is quivering flesh and dripping veins
left hollow by an anguished flood
of passion, anger, rage, and blood.
Follow the heart, obey the head.
Go fast, full stop; now quick, now dead.
It is the time of sleep and not-sleep
but warm, always.
It is the time of seen and not-seen
soft focus, blurred.
It is the time of dream and not-dream
yet absolutely real.
It is the place mapped and not-mapped
each hill and curve already known.
These are not adventures, and here be no dragons.
We know this gentle push and pull
caressing the edge of darkness
teasing the frontiers of rest.
The familiar needs no more.
Soft half-light reveals us to each other again
veiled in a gossamer web of sighs.
It is that time.
As pink shades to red, so the tightly furled bud swells and becomes more of itself. Forever growing more alluring, velvet petals invite a touch, sensuous perfume beguiles the nose. Scent blown on a lover’s breath cascades down inmost folds, finally drowning in a gentle waterfall.
Carried over the edge into tempestuous torrents, blooming, opening wider and more, into enthralling depths of sweetness. Yes, sighs and gasps and the music of the spheres, all is here, tasting of honey, pulsing with life and heat, ripe and heavy.
Red deepens to imperial purples, blue of night, midnight indigo and sparkling starred ebony. It matures but does not end, fading once more purple, red, pink, sleepy pale at last it rests.