Tag: poet
Shadows at Dawn
The moon’s outline in the sky
tells my body it’s too early for another day.
Trees once danced in numbers,
now sparse; replaced by houses, people.
The wind whistles down from the hills,
moving through my nightie, blowin’ my hair.
Forgotten clouds appear shyly,
creeping closer to the moon, hiding her outline.
The darkness and the light interweave
leaving strange shapes and shadows at dawn.
Whispers from the shadows and the wind
call me back to something known, yet unknown.
I retreat inside, knowing well I should have listened.
This Land
Moving in the wind,
the full fabric moves
in this ancient place.
Burning heat sears all,
as the sun burns down
upon this arid land.
Colours of the Earth,
different burnt colours,
not shades to dispute.
No European delicacies
need to remain here,
for the sun burns it all.
Singing moves on the wind,
an ancient song forbidden
to pay tribute to this land.
The Special One
A tiny finger points
to the sky as
they lift off the ground.
The meadow, distant now;
Hearts pound hard, fast.
Fear mixed with awe.
The small one shows
them the flowers, meadow,
the horizon, beautiful light.
A small finger gently releases
them from the spell of levitation,
as they smile, kiss, hug,
and drink a toast to the special one.
Afternoon Tea
We sit together for tea
with cups, saucers, and
the old willow teapot.
The afternoon sun moves
closer to the end
as the chatter moves on.
Wishing wells and time
come to mind for
many unknown reasons.
The teapot empties
staying that way for a while;
we continue appearances.
A sound from the teapot;
no, this must be a mistake.
The teapot becomes a shell,
and the music of the sea plays.
No one else seems to notice
the teapot, playing songs.
She’s calling me to her side;
I decide to visit the sea
and ask her for her hand.
Midnight Highways
Quiet dimly lit highways;
country roads overlook cows, sheep, powerlines.
Over the hills, an ocean of blue;
cold seawater foaming, spraying the shore.
Quitting the house, taking a midnight journey
through our memories;
we drive along those roads free as two birds.
No thoughts of lockdown, or a killer virus;
just wishfully thinking that we could live forever.
The Raven
No one visits;
no visitors visit
her home.
More a witch than a woman,
or they say something
like that in hushed tones.
Living alone stirs rumours,
tales become more and
soon blood may flow.
A beauty despite the time.
She refuses to brush her hair,
many curls, a bird appears.
Black eyes know the
way to and from this
world to the next.
The chimney sends smoke
puffing thick into the
atmosphere.
Careful, she leaves
no trace of who
she once was.
Only what is needed,
she takes from her home,
the place loved so well.
Moving on, she sets her
home alight, so no one
will find what she felt.
Hearing her home burning;
the moor hides and
not a living soul is around.
Gone before the judgement
police come knocking,
and kill her with stones.
Like the Sun
Version 1
Like the sun,
you bloom spring colours.
Attentive,
you behave like the snow.
I cannot decide
if you are the
sun or the moon.
I like to think
you are both
the sun and the snow;
beautifully complete.
Version 2
Like the sun,
you bloom spring colours.
Attentive,
you behave like the snow.
Like the moon,
you mesmerise, lighten.
I cannot decide
if you are the
moon or the sun.
You are many.
Sun and snow,
moon and sun,
winter and summer,
autumn and spring.
Notes
I thought I would show you multiple versions of a similar poem, as this is often the creative process I go through to get to a final version.
I’m interested to know which one you like better.
Nineteen Years
To sit, watching the sky change
from blue, grey, sunflower yellow,
slowly changing
to pink, indigo and darker colours.
To wonder, thinking of your love,
the tempo of your heart,
constant, changing,
from blue and green to indigo and 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 and shades.
To feel, physical movements,
mystical movements,
as our trunks, branches,
leaves intertwine until the light fades.
You and the Moon
Walking towards a destination,
stepping on the concrete jungle.
The last light is moving into the night
as the moon rises into the sky;
an orb so big and bright, so alive.
Silver spoons handed never to you,
yet the thought of only one would’ve helped;
a favour to help you walk the chosen path.
Noises, emotions, a convoluted mess;
you drown it all out with your world: music.
Turning the corner, it’s only you and the moon.
You share a moment before the darkness closes in,
and the dreams you cannot grasp,
seem too vivid and bright.
C & K 