Pomegranate and Plum

Still Life with Plums, Fruits, Pomegranate, Original oil Painting, Classic Art, Handmade painting, signed (2016)

The heat of love,
a bud about to bloom.

Blooming before those eyes,
a beautiful flower in disguise.

Mistaken by a love,
there is no bud or flower.

Instead, flesh and blood;
pomegranate and plum.

Will the fruit be cut open,
or wait for the ripening?

All beautiful fruits need time,
rare fruits take time to ripen.

Cutting ripe fruit is delicate
until you see what is inside;
revealing madness and love.

Last Farewell

A kiss on the forehead,
I know you’ll miss me.

A hug for so long,
I know I’ll miss you.

A way of saying everything,
yet saying nothing at all.

I long for you to tell me you’ll
be home for good, always.

A wild heart who loves the sea,
probably even more than you love me.

I know your heart isn’t perfect,
yet my heart’s the same,
pumping seawater.

A call came when it was all dark;
they called to say you had gone today.

I know deep down the sea would take you,
yet I never thought I’d have to say Pahimakas
so soon.

Thistle Regrets

Dreaming of the way her hills of green surround me, how her waters flow, that flower on Mum’s brooch.
That bonnie lass kissed me, and I was in love until I backed off and left her standing still, crying like an angel.
A bloody git with no love to give; I sit on park benches wishing for a bit of ‘The Guard’ treatment once a week.
The lassies don’t love an old cock, so I use face paint on me face to enhance my features, but it don’t help.
To think I feel ancient at 30! Not even Belle and Sebastian can save me ass, as she’s getting married today.
I swore I’d pop over, stand up like Elton John wanted to, and say I love you babe and I wanna kiss the bride, yeah!
Her vagina is for him now, so I can’t be taking a vagina that’s been freely given in the pleasures of consensual coitus.
I’m shite at love, yet there’s always hope in the valleys and the Loches that are 21st-century ladies and lassies.
Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t a sheep shagger; I just didn’t know love when it bit me or hit me between the eyes.
Speaking of the devil, there’s a lassie coming my way. Could it be her? No. Yet she’s like strawberries and cream; I might have a tub.

Nineteen Years

To sit, watching the sky change
from blue, grey, sunflower yellow,
slowly changing
to pink, indigo, darker colours.

To wonder, thinking of your love,
the tempo of your heart,
constant, changing,
from blue, green to indigo, black.

To love, without fear of tongues
moving like the wind,
lashing love,
moving until seeds grow darker.

To think, after nineteen years
your heart, my heart,
they feel the same,
they love in many colours, shades.

To feel, physical movements,
mystical movements,
as our trunks, branches,
leaves intertwine until the light fades.