We Are Sorry

How the Seasons, always
they do separate
when comes the time is final.

To leave us only, with their absent faces
falling swirling
caught between the brittle branch
of man, and wind.

Red random now, are those petals poor,
through
thoughts of tears
that bury deep, beneath our hurried feet.
In blacks and whites of reason
whose distance far divides
in what tomorrow strives to bring.

And, when the mornings, sunlight smile,
diluted in it’s length of stay –
shall dim to fade.

We, will offer no more
understandings of this fight.

But in words of empty, shallow ending days
I hope you understand:

We are sorry for your loss.

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…

Intolerance

You know not my history
yet you would destroy me with no prior
proceedings.

My skin matches not your chosen shade
so in the back streets of ignorance
you colour me grey.

I speak not the language of your birth
but I too had a mother and father who
spoke only to me of understanding.

Never would I communicate to you
of war – yet kill me – you would.

There is nothing within in my DNA
that marks me not of human being.

Though in this, self chosen ignorance
you bring your own hate to batter down

my innocent beliefs…

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 …

Snapped

The trees suggest
to me of dancers.
Weaving their brittled bones,
skilful on the breeze of winter’s
rebellious motion.

Supple indications, shaping
and shedding – sapping
the act of soon to be springtime’s
rejuvenation.

From such rugged growth to
sway of draping bodies bowed
No cries of encore –
No plaudits please, screech their moans
stricken they, amid
their arching
breaking limbs of woe:

Left now for wasted all
dying in the unkind cold…

 

Poppy Jan 2017~xx~

Always

We don’t know yet
that you are dying – when it arrives
embracing me lost, I shall take this place
deeper to me bending our bodies

both
into day and night.
Sleep shall leave me shallow, remote
in it’s hum of peace-less antidotes.
Décor of early mornings
stirs the reminders – my fingers
holding back the clock
until that final tick tock, foretelling

the ending of our summers concluding
consciousness:

from that final letting go
– then you always

sleeping with your cold eyes shut…

Mind Games

Sometimes I cry
for there are days when this
seems to be the only way, to discharge
this troubled mind of mine.

There are times, when my feelings
traverse back and forth
like a zip wire out of control.

Often, it comes a calling
(I refuse to offer it a name)
for it is no friend of mine.
Ever
presumptuously garmented, intent on
a long stays vacation.

Oh, I know it well
for what it is –
Name or no name.
It’s self destructiveness, lies deeper
than the creases in the smiles,
of my long hard, fought resistantance.

This kicking back – refusing
to let this un-invited visitor becoming
more
my constant companion, wears me thin.

For I know this battle
is my battle, long.
Always must I be
never willing, to permit
this self, destructive intruder:

To, come inside – and stay…

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?

Back Room Smiles.

Back Room Smiles

She is the vividness
mantled
around impure prisms
of engaging fire fly light.

Assumptions – predetermined
flicker past her tissues
lonely layers.
The ghost of something, one
day lost
treads in shadows by your side.
She, always politeness

concealed features
playing frivolous games.
Make believe – the touch
of something dark, rubs eyes
closed shut.

Origins of back room
innocence

absurd in their self-satisfied glow
of naked, adulteress smiling…