Brush

One draught of breeze

In its own slight time

Takes me sideways

Mind-move meander

At the pace of lightning

I will catch up later

In the stillness of dusk

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Handful of Love

Submissively steal

Through the plumped up

Silken clouded sky

Laid on layer

Upon layer

Of happenstance dreams

Rose-hips

Cherubs &

Bounties of plentiful beams

Sumptuous

The unbound fruits

Found by free roving hands

The seductress of youth

Lets all doubts of desire

Or distance be damned

Say what you will

With the quill as your pen

Ten-to-eleven your odds do extend

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Still The Empty Pages

Years, covered in a few nostalgic pages

Time, that passed almost unknowing

Sufficient still

To create a further invitation

There is time enough left

To rough out a few half worn pathways

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Leave

In place of daydreams I retire instead

To my recurring

Past caring obsession

Where roof tiles

Lillie-white roses & gazebo's are absent

Plentiful are the wages that protect my urges

Years of blues sustained

By the unlimited shades of blue

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Involuntary Pomp

These words are my aromatherapy, the rhyme strategy, if such a thing should exist would be my massage oil; the open spaces where reader, and writer alike, are encouraged to wander... part of my clear hope for an entire lack of politicised commitment, & should form be used then it's shape and patterns would be my very blueprint, or touchstone for how I, or how anyone, might then become a constructor or alchemist, able to dream up their own healing potions... with such ideals I welcome the singular words of love or beauty to stand ten feet tall on the billboard, erect and firm as the forewords of poetry’s very own, imaginary instruction manual


A personal response to reading Adrienne Rich’s address on commitment, in the bathtub at the end of an exhausting vacation

This poem is from the collection