Dancing 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 not, 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…

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…

Searching For Her Monet.

She painted the seasons
outlined a Monet in all of his
most vibrant hours.

Life, had gifted her nothing
outside the slap dash imagery of tragedy
conceptual in it’s primitive need.

She daubed splendour – in full
blown colour
monochrome approval mutilating
her body’s refracted light.

She came tutorial prepared –
drawn into existence:
Always

looking for her creator.

Transition

Where we tread – seldom sees the
sun of summers now abbreviated days.
Blackberries un-ripenened mass, on mass
as through the scumbled leaves – she skips
innocence still playful about her lips.

She finger flicks the plentiful untouched fruit
scratches running arms length
delicate pink, across her tender
childlike skin.

We stop, catching the richly spiced
choral woodland sound.
She stops to look
wanting to ask – before I place a finger
softly against her mouth.

I sense she understands
with her eyes now wide, mourning
this, the passing of her childlike
deflection

As she – the girl
who once was:

had suddenly became me…

Gentle In Black

Last night in the long drawn out darkness
I finally realised –
what it means to be alone.
No one –
will ever understand me
as you once did.

Oh they try
how they try
with their well meaning
words of truism –
and yes, tomorrow
will always be another day.

But today, gentle in my black
I can only walk away when they say

they love me:
For what is love
without your understanding?

Stars

Ssshh...
come the death of day
can you hear the stars, opening
their veiled eyes.

So far – so far
and yet, in
gowns of countless shimmer
scattered boundless strewing
freely, courting
the moons bedtime sky.
They stare to dazzle – capturing
those watchful eyes.

– Leaving all
to cherish this starry, starry night
in moods of luminous, silver light!

Poppy ~xx~

 

Mrs Simpson

I wear you casual style
boastful about my hat
red feathers flying.
Trending the image of pleasing
dressed in the fashion of fun.

I write long– my lines criss crossing
all sensitivity surrounding this turmoil
of us

We dine –
just as yesterday, precious in each
others smile.
The dark eating away
the blood raw light
sublime in our reasons
of doing things well.

Your needs – have
become my reasons for wanting flight.
Hard caught around the flame
of your brightness
yet far too trapped:

For my ever taking flight…

 

Poppy ~xx~
April 12th 2016

Blank Pages.

I should have written sooner – posting
the words going round in my head.

I wanted to tell you – often
how sad and depressed I was
not seeing you this time.
And yet I feel your distance – more than
these footsteps, that have come between us.

Before closing this letter, I taste
the malignant saliva of my haste.
Would that I could
forget your face, wipe unsoiled all taste.
Blameless are they not;
those who drink deep of their disgrace.

I trespass stupidly, amid
the fragments of remnants censured
of all blame

Yet still these white vacant pages
make me realise, that
I should have written sooner …

Poppy ~xx~
May 12th 2015

The Departure.

The lengthening spread of night
sinks my vessels filled

the lights, unhappy properties
draw me colour blinded to their sleep.
With wonder – when he stops to ask;
that I am exhausted’.
Then let it not come, by stranger’s mouth
I reply.
For I should listen only, to sounds lighter
than the wind,
dancing in the dry cotton grass.

 

Poppy
April 28th 2015