Tag Archives: poem

Knot

The Knot of Hands

Hands tell a tale, even in

fractured lives, in

crowded places where a

hand helps, in the

silent bed where a

hand slips over hip

seeking fingers, in the

tight knot of

life lived in all its

knotty impossibility.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit.)

 

 

Advertisements

Pizzeria

In this achingly modern eatery

there is nothing to distinguish

staff from customers and

endless uncertainty

who to wave at, who to

casually ignore.

 

My pizza arrives, the

ingredients so

carefully selected

unevenly spread, with

acres of barren dough like a

life with only

occasional pleasures, the

bare bits usually

left until last.

Older or Younger?

It’s hard to respond to the

insouciant rudeness of the young,

but then I was once so

certain of my rectitude,

wrote paeans to pain,

love-lyrics to unattainable and

frankly unsuitable lovers,

belittled a warm home and

bewildered parents, blamed

bosses and politicians and even

implicated the innocent

Moon in my moanings.

 

Am I better in old age?

Don’t I still rage at the

nightly news, bristle at some

shallow social shibboleth?

Do I not fall in love, or

lust, at the drop of a hat?

Am I not still prone to

enthusiasms, losing people,

making their eyes glaze?

Is the Moon not still

sullied by my

perpetual poetic probings?

 

So I ask you, am I

better older or

should I give in to the rude

insouciant adolescent

hidden within me?

Perfect?

Who can ever write the

perfect love poem, half

heartache, half

heartbreak, completely

lost and almost found,

cast up on some

alien shore watching

buoys and gulls all

adrift on the same

choppy sea?

Wild Flowers

Thank God nobody is perfect for
love would have no
grip for its wind-blown seeds to find
cracks and crannies in
seemingly solid surfaces to
sprout and spread its
sharp tendrils to
cover what would have been a
bare wall with
wild flowers.

Opening Properly

The house grows old with us, and it’s

open to question which of us

creaks and complains more as the

stairs are climbed.

 

That tap takes two or three

turns to get going and the

flow is not

what it was.

 

That light in the kitchen

flickers and fails, but a

rap or two makes its

heart beat again.

 

That radiator never seems

hot until the key

lets out a

delicate brown fart.

 

That window never opens

that window

never opens

properly.

Presents

When I have given you enough

perfumes (though you always smell wonderful),

scarves (though you are always beautifully dressed),

books (though you are so well-read),

watches (though you are never punctual),

what then?

 

Wine? but you rarely drink;

Clothes? you find bargains where I would never look;

Jewellery? I haven’t the means to

do you justice and

Lingerie is a presumption and anyway

men are crap at sizes.

 

Perhaps all that is left is

presence.

Dimensia

Since childhood I’ve felt

objects approaching me

unbeckoned but

indisputably on a

collision course I somehow

cannot avert.

 

So many spillages,

so many apologies,

so many blushed replies because

this is England after all and

spillages are assumed to be the

fault of both parties.

 

Oh and I also trip over cables so

don’t let me anywhere near a

studio despite it being my

place of work.

Inside/Outside

External splendours

Am I inside or

outside? Should I

attend to the meal I

carefully prepared or

gawp at the clouds and that

further beyond that

beckons with a

crooked finger that

never points to anything

definite but

merely implies?

 

Tempo de Amor

“Tempo de Amor” (Vinicius de Moraes/Baden-Powell 1966)

 

You have a lot to record, so

many songs, but no

studio time so you get

wives, girlfriends, mistresses

(who knows?) singing a

complicated chorus so

beautifully out of

key you can hear

Vinicius loving it,

propelling it and

Baden-Powell aching to

remake it to its

detriment.

N A L I N D A

P H O T O G

Apollonia Saintclair

Ink is my Blood

CHARLESVAS

Alla ricerca della scatola magica...

Diana Marin

Fine Art Photography, Poetry, Multimedia art, & Editorials

Rusted Honey

Poetry, haiku, tanka, and micropoetry

Turning the Lights Off

Random musings inside my head no matter how hard I try to shut the damn lights off

Southern Georgia Bunny

Adventures of an Southern Bunny everything from dating, sex, life and shake your head moments.

Secret Dates Diary

Diary from a hotwife's perspective

Lessons in Kate

What can I teach you?

Human Pages

The Best of History, Literature, Art & Religion