Once creative, free dreaming,
imagining, laughing, living,
being weird, looking at sheds.
The Palette of humanity was full of colours;
some beautiful and cashed up,
others odd and different, many dark and awful.
The Palette of Colours was the make-up
of human beings and their emotions.
The who they were, not just clinical notions.
Now humans hold an empty Palette devoid of colours.
There is only black and white;
Humans don’t even know how to find the grey.
When a number discovered a Tea Cosy,
no one knew what it was.
They didn’t understand the colours,
yet they were moved, and something changed.
The Tea Cosy was taken and studied in secret;
So began the filling of the human Palette with colours,
and the Great Tea Cosy Revolution.
A snow-covered forest full of silent trees,
listening to the sounds of unseen things.
A desire for quiet in the deafening silence,
as lockdown takes its toll on the mind, body.
A snow-covered forest on a clear night,
wandering alone in search of wolves, bears;
searching for yourself in the quiet night.
A sense of constrained longing for travel,
as dreams of places take your mind away.
A snow-covered forest with your wolves,
sleeping on the forest floor dreaming;
connecting with the forest and the spirits.
A sense of peace fills you with new energy,
as you reconnect with the seen and unseen.
A snow-covered forest with your soul-mate,
walking in the snow together without words;
looking at the North Star and the soft lights.
Warm caramel fudge cools
in the Sunny Spring kitchen.
Night has come, foreboding;
a buzz of something in the air.
The cats get the Zoomies
then the birds start their chatter
as the trees become loud.
The porch chair waits for me
so I sit for a while and look
skyward for signs of life,
I see the clouds move in.
An intensification of feelings
as the first rumble shakes
the atmosphere into action.
Another tenor rumbling,
then a flash of light;
the sky is dancing wildly.
I cannot pull away from
the sight, even as you
speak of the dangers.
Droplets drum the roof
then the porch is alive with water.
I reach out to touch the heavens;
you don’t say a word.
A moony sky
lighting up the night.
slowly warming up.
as Sunday is here.
Doing little, feeling
a lazy kind of vibe,
as Sunday passes.
Walking without sight,
you stumble, falling so fast.
Whispers like music,
calling you to return home;
Waking in your lover’s arms.
A pair of heavenly legs,
they moved towards a body of light;
beauty in the summer sun.
You looked at me with
eyes of flame,
challenging me to speak,
or so I thought.
Beauty on the beach
masks the truth within those eyes;
I looked past your truth.
Cold and sweet,
you were my summer girl;
never meant for Autumn or Winter.
You sit in the light
as streaks of faded colours
move into the night.
Thoughts of your world,
a hot and hazy hell;
melting, you might sigh.
I picture you over there,
sipping cold water;
cursing the burning sun.
Thoughts turn to my world,
a cold night of ice rain
with a Winter’s full moon.
I wonder if you picture me,
over here wet and cold;
dancing naked at 2:30 am.
After many years of love the bow broke,
then the music of love stopped playing;
we began to drift apart and separate.
Littered among the remains of
the two of us
are the ashes of music instruments.
All the music we played for each other
is now burnt
to the ashes on the floor of our parting.
The sound of the desert
moving in the vibrations
from many components.
Shades of nature sound
in this ancient place
to bring hidden things
towards the surface.
The sounds of music play in
the middle of nowhere
bring feelings of somewhere.
Sounds of ancient times
never lost, yet always
as she plays for him.