This music,

it makes me want to fall from the water

float in the sky,

stare at those lips

and kiss those green eyes,

drink from the clouds

and jump on the pond

to feel the stars

and gaze at the stones,

the rythms , the notes

melt my mind

ignite my visible voice

I'm not here nor there

maybe inside a void

floating on the blues

maybe its a d...

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A babe in a pram,

Wheeled down Lord street,

At the speed of a tram.

Mouth engrossed with jelly and swine,

Melting fine

Michelback’s prime.

My mum grew up on these pies,

I too.

As an infant into the 80’s,

pate mini pork treats,

from Grimes butchers.

I suppose it is what you grew up with,

Your tastes, your clutches.

Jelly, pastry, succulent meat,

which ...

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I was enjoying sitting in the garden, pondering the beauty and the timelessness of nature, compared to the fickleness and unreliability we see in our leaders and found myself writing a villanelle. First draft below – may yet be edited but I wanted to share it now.

Constancy

Reminders of a life, a dream now torn
Scabia, flags and tulips, forget me nots
Behind the privet hedge a rolling lawn

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Marketplace

This space is like a ghost town

Trestle tables row on row

Echoing with the hustle bustle

Vendors cries of long ago

I held my mother’s hand

And listened to them shout

‘apples sixpence a pound

Come on get your money out!’

Comics stored in cardboard boxes

Toys stacked high on stands

Gleaming in the Friday sun

Just out of reach of sticky h...

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I cant seem to wrap my head around, the reason that you left. 

Maybe I'm tired or just coming down but your voice is all that's left in this silence now, I cant really answer when or how.

Sticks and stones may break my bones; but your words destroyed me 

And they tell me not to dwell, just to let it on go but as the silence grows louder I'm losing grips of the rope. If only I could carry ...

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My Mother’s Kitchen

I’m in my mother’s kitchen

It’s a Monday afternoon

The oven’s heated up the air

The buns will be out soon

Everywhere there’s an aroma

Of cinnamon and spice

An apple pie sits on the table

I’m waiting for a slice

A black-leaded coal fire

Does it’s best to dominate

The heat and the smells

That the baking permeates

An old fridge hums...

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Corners caress the bricks

breading that familiar shape,

in which to pace fingertips,

reimagine and fall

the abode of cliché,

the same smitten desires,

plotted here in prints of feet

the way they moved,

the way they moved,

the way they moved,

nostalgic tracks swoon you low

to the floor, roused but not here.

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When sun comes against all odds

And the colours of life just pop

Or when the rain falls

It falls and falls

And you wet your lips

With piping hot tea

With warm biscuit

Savour the crumbs

Cosy and safe

In the arms of a jumper

The padding of the sofa,

Like a huge hug

Or when your face aches,

Your stomach vibrates

Because you are fighting to breathe

Through ...

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