throat of a blackbird
opens to sing the morning
dew sparkle on lawns
Poetry
Reduction to bare bones
ocean
blue
depths
unexplored
mountains
high
hard to climb
lovely view
freedom
mythology
choice
mythical
two roads
crossroads
belonging
to mystery
honour,
if only
dreams
are for dreaming
Love,
what about love?
define it
refine it
think
you love me now?
love is
what i thought
i did
I Know Yellow and Blue
I have heard it said that purple and mauve
stand for memory, nostalgia, or loss.
Lavender scented cupboards spring to mind.
I know that purple is yellow and blue,
mixed by an artist’s brush
Summer skies, cornflowers, sunflowers,
sunshine and bluebells in spring,
daffodils, delphiniums,
bunting across the street,
blue doors in white walls
under an awning that flapped in the wind,
a boat on a tossing sea breeze,
blue ripples across the bay,
a beach ball of summer stripes thrown up to the sun,
the bucket and spade we left behind
on that glowing yellow day
Our memories shine in full colour
or age to a lesser thing
My Obsessions
this is a found poem – it comes from my tag cloud on this blog and so it consists of words I use a lot in poems……….
*********************
My Obsessions.
Ancient bards and books,
a breeze full of butterflies
above the Celtic hills.
Cities, clouds, the dance of death,
a desert dragons dream,
dreaming dreams with evening eyes
of fateful fantasy and fire
with firelight in the forest garden
where a girl with a haiku
plays a harp and sings
of heart and home and horses.
Imagination kindles lakes,
leaves, land and love,
love, always love,
magic memories of moons
moonlight, morning music.
At night, the oak overshadows
oceans of passion
paths of peace and perfume,
poems of rain and ravens,
the rocks, the river,
roses by the sea.
The sky a silver smile
when the snows come,
then the song of spring,
sunlight and starlight.
Time towers above the trees.
The wings of winter spread again
above a woodland made of words
Paradise
nothing to say about this that is not said in the poem
Forget the clear blue sky
forget the golden shore
forget the secrete pathways
that others walked before
forget the drinks in coconuts
that exploit the passing trade
you go in search of paradise
in the wrong place i’m afraid
Forget the packaged desert islands
with a culture oh so fake
forget the holiday hot spots
that were designed to take
forget mind numbing tours
with nothing new to find
my friend I tell you paradise
is just a state of mind
Some find it in a crowed room
some find it on there own
some find it in a sacred place
where they go to atone
some find it by a babbling brook
or a car festooned with chrome
but some will tell you paradise
is to simply have a home
By
Forty Two
© Forty Two, all rights reserved
Picture Credit : www.mindfullymusing.com
5 out of every 100 rough…
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Urgent Wings
the bee
eagerly flying
deeply desiring, flower to flower it skips
urgently buzzing, furiously humming
with perfume divine and wide open lips
the orchid accepts
the bee
Growing ~ A Found Poem (Twitter scraps)
Add your name to join the movement.
I wait for the light, in my own fashion.
Have you seen? This room has grown.
On this day last year, the cost
of being wrong was nothing.
I am loving my poems more each day
What is so delicious about it is
stony limits cannot hold out.
Explore the magic toy shop with me
The Birch Tree
the graceful birch, straight ahead
where the forest begins, a white cluster
the old wood has fallen
and rotted to riches
feeding the daffodil shoots
pushing upward, splitting the earth
tender tree, a white beacon
stands by the dark forest edge
this is a time for promises
made to each morning begun
the sap, so sweet before the first green,
becomes bitter when the year starts to age
Through the Nets
if dreams were liquid we’d all be oceans
notions of fish would swim in our depths
the tides are tirelessly churning the sand
the weeds below sway in the flow
in time the ocean will swallow the land
our silvered skins flicker and shine
I feel your slick side stroke against mine
circling back I seek you again
we swim through life escaping the nets
The Bones They Talk (a terzanelle)
in whispering voices, the bones, they talk
through the rolling curving lines of the land
they lead me gently, unconscious I walk
on the moss covered stones I rest my hand
to feel their quiet presence lingering there
through the rolling curving lines of the land
in the haunt of the fox, home of the hare,
where all is as it was before, I come
to feel their quiet presence lingering there
guided by moonlight, stones, spiral and sun
I walk the path of the ancestors bones
where all is as it was before, I come
to the place of the barrow, long dark homes,
with lasting respect for all that they knew
I walk the path of the ancestors bones
the stones they placed and the ancient ditches
where the blackthorn at dawn sparkles with dew
inform me still of their deepest wishes
with lasting respect for all that they knew
The Dreaming Path 