Posthumous Pen

We sit, sharing your scotch and soul
renouncing the new, none nobility who
reside down the hall.
You colour me a story, about art reflecting life.
Where contrived painters, daub
their disjointed views, onto canvas’s
pinned to fragile walls of hope and hate.

Maybe I say.
But what about the unnoticed poets, who freed
their private thoughts
in black and white, pressed
between the pages new.
Works, where few,
seldom seem to go these days
until the writers been buried, deep
and in debt.

Then, up they rise
the new age, poetic apostle – airing
all those long faded, dusty words.
Bringing home to them, some posthumous
unheard of, literary award.

Well then, you smile.
It would seem that death does
have some rewards – so please before
you leave, my dear:

Pass me, my best poets pen…


Kite Tails and Streamers.

with the meadow so full of poppies
red lake rippling in the noon day sun.

You “so childlike” caught on some artist’s canvas
yellow dress – flying your laughter
kite tails and streamers
a splash of liberated persona.

I surface our horizons for air
you of such delicate scent,
only stand to stare
how I adore your distant margins –
as always offered to perfection.

Forgive me my measured reaction
haste always makes mistakes.
Come “close” your face
in a thousand gentle images
though I’d settle for just one.

Poppy June 2014 ~xx~