Day: February 26, 2016

Across the road the almond tree

Across the road the almond tree

Will fill with buds in January.

Beside the porch,spiked rosemary

Flowers its blue in memory.

Waking these midwinter morns

I long to see Spring’s lighter dawns

Subtler changes each day bring

The time to us when dawn birds sing

They make new nests,the swans do too.

I once   made a nest with you.

The apple tree, quite safe would be.

That shall be  the loving tree.

The tree will utter forth its pink

As I write this down with my blue ink

When I look, I see the strength

Of trunk and branches green-brown length.

The roots are navigating soil

Where the worms and insects toil.

Another wood beneath the ground,

Is growing deep without a sound.

And its birds do not fly high

For in dark soil there is no sky.

All beings which live upon this earth

Turn to dust to feed new birth.

From the dead,the living spring.

Thus nature her fresh blossom brings.

 

Activity breeds purpose

This is really old

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I’m not sure what my poem title means

The phrase came to me in  a dream.

So I just wrote it down

On the hem of my gown.

Like a little gold nugget,it gleams!

If you want to become an artist

Starting  is what’s the hardest.

Embellish your desires

With Orpheus’s lyres.

And do not too easily desist.

The very activity of writing

Will set your mind and heart brightening.

The activity itself

Will give you its wealth.

Though even success can be frightening.

One   sentence leads on to the next.

Pretend you’re just sending a text.

Your mind will ignite

Like  gelignite.

As long as your Muse is not vexed!

More writing leads onto more,

Like opening a magical  door.

The more words you write

The  clearer grows insight.

And into your mind metaphors pour,

Imagine your mind is a bowl.

Empty,like an artist’s own soul.

The creative Muse

This emptiness will use.

Oddly this way os your goal.

Artists  feel low and inferior.

Their wealth is hid in their interior.

Your Muse will fill you

And give you your due.

As long as your desires aren’t ulterior.

Your desire should be for Nothing at all.

So you can never in the end really  fail.

The God in your heart

Makes creativity start.

So   wait quietly there for your Call.

All that you’ve done and have been

By your angels is ultimately seen.

So fear not the pain

It will be for your gain.

You ‘ll be like a tree newly  clothed with green.

A new wheeze for wives.Go on shriek.

I say necessity is the mother of extensions
My nerves unreeled like a film
As curvaceous as a rat-run on a hot thin roof
As nervous as a long veiled bat in a room full of flocking hairs
Oh,never shut off until tomorrow what you can do dismayed
 A new wheeze for  wives.Go on shriek.
A hollow history troubles one
Nice guys finish passed
 A fright by day, she looked  sufficient in the night
Babies can nip and suck if smiling
Men cannot flock like stoats.Queue to speak.
No accountants s have taste
No  cranium is entirely hollow
Oh,woe.oy vey,let’s go.
No gold’s’ jarred me
No if’s ,no off’s. no butts,no verbs.Just words.

I knitted Mobius strips whilst intertwined.

This poem is unsure whether it is humorous or very serious
He loved my  beauty, not my wandering mind.
In fact ,he preferred me to be almost mute
I knitted Mobius strips whilst intertwined.
And listened to his voice as to a flute.
I soon grew tired of hearing his   crazed  views
I found a man who liked to hear me speak.
Until I mentioned I owned  ten green shoes.
Bottles yes,but shoes made me a freak
Then I found a man who never spoke.
He listened with a kind,inviting smile.
I would have liked to test him with a joke.
But feared I might then harm his utter guile.
Formidable the quest to  match one’s soul.
I need a body too to make me whole.

Synopsis:the sonnet

Synopsis is a word derived from Greek.

Synthetic  has a similar undertow.

And as we modern English people speak,

The thoughts of ancient humans unknown show

Long dead are our ancestors of course,

Though each cell of our body has their genes.

And when the  scholar rises to discourse,

Hebraic,Greek or Latin gleams.

Education’s task is acquisition:

Vocabulary and  its written forms.

We don’t learn much from watching television.

Passivity may cause  our  minds real harm

What we say    is deeper then we know.

Words each have their special undertow

I write a line then sit up

As I reflect,I am caressing one hand with the other

The way I might  apply hand lotion.

Or my lover might.

My elbows are on the arms of this old chair.

When I am puzzled ,I place

 the palm of my right hand

Over the back of the left and pull ot to and fro

As if to ease out a thought

Ask for a gift.

Or pull it out of this pen-holding  hand by magic.

I write a line then sit up straight.

My lips are pursed;

I look up as if asking God to help

But I’m looking inwards

Where a dream image may float by

My left foot taps on the carpet

Calling the dead to return.

Now I’m  kneading my hands,anxious.

Am I uncertain?

I can’t say what I want.

I  intertwine my fingers,pull on them both ways

While looking out of the window

The sap is rising  in the shrubs

and though no leaves  open

The branches and twigs have more colour

Than last year .

But you were here last year

I bite my lip and narrow my eyes;

Who am I fighting?

Now my hands stretch and relax;

I smile.

The mind lives in the body.

Where?

The mind is the body.

How?

I frown in confusion and slight anger

At him for going.

It’s coffee time.

The door bell rings.

I stand up.

I love the shade of you

I love the shade of purple

I love all shades of blue

But most of all,my dearest,
I love the shade of you.
I love the color circle.
I love to paint the dew.
But first of all,before I start…
I’m studying your hue.
I love to see the sunlight
Gleam across the trees;
I love the green,I love the shade
But it’s you I want to see.

It looks and speaks just as a sonnet would

This poem is written in the sonnet form,
And yet I have my doubts about its shape
Though nearly to that structure it conforms
There may be holes where nightmare faces gape.

It looks and speaks just as a sonnet would
And talks of metaphysical concerns.
Do we conclude, as poets and readers should,
That in our schizoid age we cannot learn?

For humans may be decked in clothes of wolves;
And lambs be dressed with lions’ fearsome furs..
Thus sense is tricked and problems are unsolved.
Landscapes etched, yet details seem quite blurred.

It looks like one,it feels like one,it speaks;
Yet from these words, does human feeling leak?