Seasons Rebirth.

I can never grow old
wrapped in my winters deep, deep cold.

The rain, she may be considered beautiful
yet she is flawed, shivering in her dampened gown.

May I ask you all for your considered silence
at least allowing me my quarters  sleep.

I never intend to die drowning
deeper, darker waters:
Will always merge in me.

For am I not; your constant rebirth of all seasons…
January 6th 2015 ~xx~

What’s on your doormat?

The Poetry Shed


Last week a friend and I visited the Grayson Perry display, Who are You? currently running at the National Portrait Gallery. The display ties in with the TV series and what I liked most about it, well one of the things, was the way you had to find the pieces by following a map. Having them spaced out gave you time to breath and really take in each exhibit. Probably my favourite piece was a £10 note tapestry with the Queen looking like (in Grayson’s own words) “your auntie”. What I immediately thought when I looked at his portrait of Britishness “What a fantastic writing exercise for my students”.

Grayson Perry tapestry

So how lucky was I when a copy of Playing to the Gallery plopped through my letterbox? It got me thinking about the next theme for The Poetry Shed… What’s on your doormat? So poems relating to this theme can be…

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The Tulips.

Daddy bought me tulips
dressed as flowers in disguise.
How remorsefully obtuse they stood –
wrapped tight; about their neat closed cup.

My pretense over their acceptance
I know it will not last:
It’s as if, pretty and ugly
are both wearing the same mask.

So, I’ll stay, in the outline of this room
searching out, those bright red tulips.
For soon myself and they
will lessen their fresh faced bloom.

I can hear myself say.
I’ll sweep them under the carpet
the place, where secrets go to lie.

Poppy ~xx~
3rd January 2015

It Hardly Matters.

From the moment, I heard your call
in the wind, in the trees, in my head.
All that I had built around me – trickled free
in this the debris of my mind.

I sat
protected by the understanding of my books,
with a non stick coating adhered to my sides.
I try writing in less important rhyme
whilst numbly raising my finger
gauging exactly; the tempo of this time.

It sets one back – of this I understand
yet there is lucidity in these actions.
You might say –
they cannot shine so bright
as a face, that reflects implicit
manners, of all loves favour.

To which, I would, with all honesty reply.
It hardly seems to matter
as I listen once again, for those voices in my head.

January 1st 2015
Poppy ~xx~