Desire for Song

I want to sing

I wanna bit of a thing

With the boy stood next to me

I see despise

Clear in his eyes

I want that entered deep in me

Side by side in dreams

Yet he's the one who's free

Side by side it seems

Yet he's the one with the cherry tree

I want to sing

Hey you pretty thing

Take some time with me

I see lost cries

Near in his eyes

I want that entered deep in me

Side by side in dreams

Yet he's the one who's free

Side by side it seems

Yet he's the one with the cherry tree

This poem is from the collection 

Don’t wake me next time

Starbursts; millions and zillions of stars bursting out in cascades just as in a firework fountain. Reds at first, a continuous vast outpouring of tiny specs of the cosmos huddled together as if lava flooding from a volcano. Reds that slowly turned to purples, to blues, to whites, all as starbursts; starbursts with endless unlimited energy, starbursts that fired and flared before their gradual replacement with more distinctive patterns; definable shapes, hoops and ovals, ellipses and paisleys, swirls and loops with translucent and fluorescent membranes, as if of the jellyfish on the seashore.

Gone, in that split second of the eyes opening and the eyes closing; gone again, the images turn to nought but grey and black, the excitement is gone, the hope of image capture is gone, the belief in disbelief is gone; all left are my words, that may or may not describe those few moments of unbridled wonder and meditation, that entire starburst of once in a lifetime.

This poem is from the collection 

Escapology

I have no more desire

My desire’s run through

I have no one else to tell

My colour’s turned blue

The unsteadiness of breeze

Rocks me as the aspen leaf

Thoughts of a ne’er-do-well

My riptide spurns its grief

I have the telegraph time

My rhyme’s still to choose

I haven’t a defining spell

My delectations are loose

The dull grey cloudy sky

Folds away as the thief

Tomorrow I’ll maybe dwell

My hope is thus so brief

This is the final poem from the pamphlet

Vagaries: Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop

Embellishment

The young man, tanned attractive youth, with a ruby earring and a swallow tattoo;

He swung the waltzer capsule with all the energy, and the raw emotion, of a wild animal on the chase of its prey

The young girls, bland attractive teenagers, wearing satin and denim with strings of imitation pearls;

They squealed with all the delight and the expectant joy of a wildebeest in the mating season

By the candy-floss stall a bubble machine cascaded bubbles, they floated freely all over the fairground, some of the glowing delicate orbs landed, gently, on to Sapphire’s velvet collar;

She was already dreaming of their faint, heady & passionate significance

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop

Mother & Child

It brings out the romantic in me, the nostalgic romantic; to see the young girls blowing bubbles in the park. To know that they will grow up and enter the romanticised world of the bubble. The bubble of a first love, entered with all the innocent joy of youth, or re-entered with the passionate experience of maturity.

Of course the young girls were competitive, each one wanted to blow the bigger bubble, each one wanted their mother to be the proudest. The bubble was what tied the child to the mother, what neither could hold firmly, yet what neither could ever give back.

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book and audio cd from  poetryshop