Drowning Daffodils.

You begged to go swim –
to sleep
deeply, of the fish and ocean.
So slowly with the rising of the tide
we sank to our knees, dancing
for reasons of know, knowing.

We had a love house
flooded plains, hidden from
the fat eyed women and flat capped men
who sat outside, beside their view of life
wagging their
tongues, of debased woe.

Remember when they found us, seaweed
rolled – with hair a mess and features
cold.
Didn’t I say – we needed to rise

but instead we kept on dancing
far beyond those fields of
golden, swaying daffodils…

No!

There is no one who can touch me
beyond my feelings, for that sleepless
red, gigantic moon.

Our love was not of art, metered
in verse, or painted in scenes that coloured
the watchful eye.

I will you, take flight –
not to return; taken by those suspect winds
that blow the chills through
uninviting doors.

No complaining – no intentions ever meant
no smiles, no voiceless regrets, now
long solitary reviving those times
on so many counted ifs!


You called me – your autumn
glazed in tones of fertile gold.
I replied, that autumn, always she comes to die
leaving those who once did touch her

brittle cold – buried deep as snow…

Graffiti On The Train

I think I’ve had enough

gonna get myself a drink
before chiselling out your name
upon the passing subway wall.

You can verbalise me down
send my dreams nowhere bound
along with your, rough edged
explanations –
kicking hard against my reasons.

Why don’t you try to make me stay
plant me flowers – wild sown.
Colour out those visions of scenes once viewed
from dirty, bedroom windows
whilst sleeping all alone.

Call me sometime, filling
in those lost, empty spaces.

Can’t promise to ever pick up
still too busy reading:

Our forgotten
graffiti on the train …

Half Stewed Roses

She stirs her coffee
always
anti clockwise:

Driven by the need
never to meddle with time.

This woman –
dishing out a pan
of half stewed roses
hitching up her future thoughts
catching the sun, through
a slanted, slated roof.

She convinces herself
that this is such a beautiful day
then kisses him pleasingly,
as if he had died last night.

Hidden behind her mirror
faithful to those images
never yet seen, through the light,
of honest eyes

She holds out her hands
retaining
the balance –
on this, her submersed

womanly, imagination…

Poppy 2016 ~xx~

 

Foolishly Alone.

The grass rubs cool
beneath my waiting feet.
I touch the vacant, once sanguine spaces
now lonely between my finger tips

I listen as you speak, softly “goodnight”
varied only by the rise – of her touch.
I can hear the voice of my own voice
needing to know
what made this
a goodnight.
Then you are gone
shadowy about my vision.

The sweeps of light undo me
a sharp pain, pins
me to the earth.
I want to take the warmth from your hands
cradling it about my body –
but chances come
to go – of that I now, do know.
Yet still I can recall, from my memory of memories
how foolishly I let ours go…

Poppy ~xx~
June 3rd 2015

Poker Love

Sub me a two fingered drink
let’s play poker by the fix on my face.
Pull up a chair – I’ve no liking
to this vast interspace

Two neat paranoid drunks
with no compromise for hooch on the rocks,
let me dine out, on your sin
sugar coated in my rebirth of youth.

Always you can write my number
on the back of your face
twisted in the contours of a bluff…

Poppy ~xx~
May 23rd 2015

No Say.

Do they scatter flowers in hell?
I am anxious and both pitied to discern.
Their exquisiteness climbs my memories wall
their perfume, crafts you effortless to recall

Shall you miss our relationships desire?
Think of me when night, wraps cold
its friendless frame.
I know I made you smile, if only for the moment
then a moment, sometimes lasts a life.

I fear the cold abstract progress of life
knocking ever explicitly at your door.
How soon –
I ask, shall you forget?

Should I lay in heaven or in hell:
Of that, I simply have no say…

 

Poppy ~xx~

May 6th 2015

Soft Brown Earth.

Not for her this slam of day
against those, violet rays that talk
of calmer reason.
For when she hears the trees, who dare
to catch the breeze, then laugh with ease,
she sets aside her mind to bleed.

For all about each season – behind
the windows curtained glass
she watch’s, bridled not for hope
of long, beyond forgotten –
then blown to scatter distant brown
with toss of hand
amid that bed of earth, still warm.

Then all about did listen
as the sun set down her light to drop.
Quietly setting over them; as the day
dropped to her knees.

Poppy ~xx~

1st May 2015

 

Whitewashed House.

My house is all whitewashed
whiter than chicken bones left drying
in the noon day sun.

I was five –
when they set you to rest
but here, you still live
my overdue resident, of sometime past.
How many things do I need to remember
outside the love of a father and child?

I suffered from no preconceptions
A child never does –
you offered, and I melted like sugar
so all the children can sing, as we let
the sea wash over us.

On the day they buried you
I played – though never in fun.
I felt it was  better than crying
less to make those grown ups mad.
Someone stopped to touch my head
they seemed old
so very, very old
I remember thinking
no matter
how long you were dead – you would always be you!
never to be that way:
So I smiled –
as I painted my house white…

Poppy ~xx~

26th April 2014

Singular.

We sat
side by side, on the lawn
next to the pond
that ran down to your house.

Sitting there together, subversive
in our views – yet never lovers not
to each other.
We wanted to live, see the world
stepping far away from our backgrounds
of persuasion.

Suicide, births marriages, and deaths
unremitting seasons –
Side stepping the foot paths
that led good men to their destiny.

Yet knowing
how the unearthly bonds of our singular
would one day bring us back as one…

 

Poppy  ~xx~
April 11th 2014