Tag Archives: poetry

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?

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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.

Pilgrim

I could, of course, still walk the

Pilgrims Way, just up the

hill from me, but I have

lost the will to go on

pilgrimage, or perhaps

hope, that intangible

something to pray for.

 

But then the bushes about me

blossom as always

come what may.

Frayed

Frayed Richard Potter

I’m frayed but

unafraid of being

battered by elements

as long as one

strand will bear my

bare footprints

long enough to be

seen before the

high tide comes.

 

(Photo with the kind permission of Richard B. Potter aka The Subtle Penguin on Twitter, and go see his lovely work)

A Tree Grows in Manchester

It’s raining again so it must be

Manchester and it’s late and my

tram also so I am

leaning against this tree in

St. Peter’s Square watching

late trams pass, their

cargoes tired (though

that girl is pretty even as

she yawns), when the

tree’s sap seeps through my

sodden shoulder making one

vein of brotherhood, one

lone tree bearing me,

lonesome and needing someone to

lean on, something

alive.

 

Your roots are tight-bound in an

iron grid bespeckled with butts

but you seem to thrive so

perhaps you like all this

noise and bustle, and maybe the

sap from shoulders seeping into your

tough veins, some

symbiosis of the city.

 

My tram hoots up from

Piccadilly, my cold bed calls.

Bud well, buddy, and thanks for

your support.

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