An Opaque Reflection

Mirrors, do not reflect the features

But the creatures who slit your soul.

Sir, a fine figure you are, quite the gentleman,

Catch me in the bar, buy me drink

And sing me a line or two about you.

Tongue-tied? I’m surprised,

For the mask you wear, you wear so well,

Tis’ a foundation for infatuated fools

Who fall for your spell.

My dear, I judge not by finery, robes

Or jewelled clothes. I perceive past

The door you unlock, the truths you tell.

For the slice of light cast in my direction

Does not mask manipulation nor deception.

Yet do not quiver, quake nor shy from my gaze,

 I offer nothing but my most critical of praise,

For I glimpse repulsion in those eyes

Akin to old masters in a modern case;

They are the wrinkles of an infant face.

The tears never cried paint them blue

And give them only the finest hue.

Beautiful Angel, fallen from the skies

Tis’ your heart which bleeds, your soul that dies.

Yet no mortal beauties can the world mistake

For only you suffer the ugliness of the opaque,

Because within your mind an image distorts

Owed to fickle fiends and villainous thoughts.

Skin like silk, I kid you not, only potholed by

 A muscle knot. Your warmth which heats my heart

Could do so when suffering several miles apart.

And lips which know a collection of kisses, 

Tender and temperate, quick to attune

Longing to linger, but gone too soon.

They shape the smile, cause hearts to race

By calling forth the beauty of thy face.

Accentuated by cheekbones, knives robed in silk

Shaded with stubble, and old man’s shield

In childish trouble. So akin to

A marble sculpture you are, chiselled  

With precision for flawless faces

The elements set in the most perfect of places.

Blinkered foal believe me not,

We each have our choices, yet I speak so honestly

With a chorus of voices. Hands so strong they

Plucked my heart (twas’ so fastened from care!)

Yet hands so gentle, no bruising did it bear.

Thus my duel to uncloak thy soul from a sheet of ice

Is not rooted from shadows of desire

For I can only combat ice with my words of fire.

Snowdrops and Crocuses

The last few days of February

Always lead to Spring

And snowdrops bow their pretty heads

To welcome their season’s king.

Crocuses of a purple hue

Burst in pride to flood the land

But Spring has not awoken you

As it did before

It is your time, my loyal friend

To tiptoe through this Golden Door.

Here you lie now

In a place we have often lain,

And whilst my heart lives on

It also beats with pain,

Knowing that we have now to part

After times so sweet, but times so few,

You left before it was time to go

And took a piece of me, away with you.

Little friend, sunshine has broken through

And cracked the shield of frost,

Yet you will not wander here

For I must pay the cost,

And miss the twinkle in your eyes

And the pinkness of your tongue

And those little funny feet

Now at rest where Robins tweet

A sad song, too say goodbye

Yes here you lie, where we have lain,

Sweet in blossom, strong in bough

This ancient tree has stood for us,

But it is your strength I must endow,

I ask you, keep me strong

Patch up this broken soul

Make me feel like I can live

In a world where I don’t belong,

Keep these eyes open,

So that I may see the stars

Heal my heart from bruising

From the pain of reality’s scars,

And do, keep me wise

And let my mind be free

Rid this tongue of lies

And cleanse my tainted entity.

I will love you, forever more,

My dear friend, I will miss you so

Help me to shut this door

So I may open a window,

Help me to see, that here you lie,

No spell can weave its work

No potions, or hocus pocuses

Here you lie

On a bed of snowdrops and crocuses. 

Treasure

Damp dew, tiny water crystals

Cling to pink polka dot boots

Casing little feet, now not tentatively tiptoeing

Now racing and chasing, dancing, darting

Over the brooks, the innocent crook

Who steals glossy gems from bursting shrubs

Swollen and fat, the juice painting patterns

On dimpled cheeks, and staining chattering lips

Purple and red, Mother’s make up

Lipsticks of similar hue, eye shadows in glittering boxes

Tied with satin ribbons on the glassed surface

Are safe for awhile, away from sticky hands

Which triumphantly clutch trophies

A fallen leaf, snatched from a breeze

Where it twirled and salsa-ed, finishing with a foxtrot

Upon a pink palm. Crimson veins crisscross on golden skin

As worn as parchment, inky lines on a Treasure map.

A twig from an ancient oak, with gnarled roots

Like snakes, twisting upward to face dappled sunlight

Illuminating the footprints of thousands

The twig is a sword, held high by our brave knight!

Who’s tiny fingers fasten on their weapon

Ready to battle, to die, to defend

Mother’s apple crumble, from Magpies and Crows

Who watch with beady eyes, on branches

Which crisscross over autumn’s pallid blue skies.

A pebble from the bubbling brook, a bottle top,

Two chestnuts, a conker, the feather of a pheasant

(Slightly battered in places)

A rusted nail, three ladybugs and a worm

A two pence piece and four pennies

A blue shoelace, and a piece of frosted glass

Humbled by the swirling, twirling waters.

To you or I this junk litters the forest floor

Yet to some tiny tot, there is beauty

Captured in this cache of fading memoirs,

A snapshot of a walk in the woods.  

Somewhere Between A and B

A girl walks from, let’s say, A to B.

Leave out the names, for now, they are irrelevant

A mystery.

A is a well lit space, solid and concrete

Polished floors, an infrastructure of steel.  

B is not so well lit, yet it does emit

A glow of sorts. It is an easy place, comfortable,

Warm. Anyway,

Her eyes flick from thought to fact,

From picture to person.

Orange light illuminating a car, sooty grey in the dark

Parked just a little over the line

The driver was perhaps in a hurry, screeching, swearing

Swerving clumsily into the final space. Hastily finishing

His morning coffee, fumbling with change in his tatty trousers.

Unshaven, unkept, unwell. Irritable.

Perhaps the clock awoke after he did, that is

The clocks do go forward today.

An hour of lost time to make up for.

Perhaps his wife shook him with a heavy heart

As the screaming toddler bawled for food

And he stumbled into the shower

(Which, they really must look into fixing)

Ripped his best pair of pants, and couldn’t find

Any matching socks. When can anyone find matching socks?

Are matching socks, perhaps, a legend of the infamous washing machine?

Perhaps.

His eldest, maybe with hair a shade too brave

(Though she could have sworn upon the grave the label said “Blonde Honey”)

Regardless, there goes fifteen quid of Dad’s money.

He perhaps wolfed down his toast, kissed her with crumbly lips

And legged it out the front door

(Forgetting his briefcase on the second floor

Of the two story address in London)

The night before? Down to the pub for an hour, he says

Three hours and six pints later the poor chaps

Upheaving the Spaghetti Bolognese

He had for supper. Man can’t hold his drink nowadays

Says the retired Sailor from across the bar.

A tattoo of his late wife across his bulging belly

Held in with a belt that saw him through three seas

And two battles, as sturdy and strong as he.

The barman stands with a cheerful smile

And sad, sad eyes. His other job, a cashier

At the Tesco’s around the corner, pays a little less

But it gets him buy. Perhaps he was never meant

To be an Oxford graduate

Perhaps.

The woman with the gin and tonic

At the back, tucked in a corner

Maybe lost her job, and then

Walked in on her husband

With some random redhead in curls

(Weren’t those Aunt Mildred’s pearls

Fastened snugly around that lily white neck?)

That’s the second time this month she sighs

Then smiles with hazy eyes

It’s just a bad day

Yet the girl who’s walking

From A to B, and is now somewhere

Between the two, hasn’t a clue.

The man with car, sooty grey in the

Dim twilight, may be her husband

Perhaps.

The woman at the bar, with eyes

Weeping tears her heart cannot

Cry, may be her, in a year or ten

Perhaps.

Yet for now, the girl is stuck

Spoilt with time, blindfolded with innocence

Somewhere between A and B

In retrospect; carefree.

Growing Up

Often the young forget

What it is they love, and frequently find

They tend to regret choices they make,

A silly mistake, a childish phrase

Playing the adult in several ways,

But still unripe, not ready to bloom,

Trapped in angst and youthful gloom

Blind to the world, caught in a mind,

Where logic and thought is only confined

To the space at the back, with boxes and bags

Tied with pink ribbons and babyish tags,

Pushchairs and prams reside there too

Replaced by rings and watches, sparkling and new

Too old for that, too young for this,

Too cool for everything, except a goodnight kiss

And a hug and a cuddle on a quiet afternoon

Perhaps an apology (once in a blue moon)

Since deep down I think you know

I’m still your baby, and I won’t let you go. 

Cyberspace

(this was created using only words from a magazine article) 

I have no mouth

And I must scream.

Science has offered treatments,

Demonstrated the mechanics

Had I thought of it.

I can’t be the only person

Hoping to feel unfamiliar.

My concept,

My fairly limited toolkit,

Merely creates space inside

A virtual world.

The characters themselves

Are nothing special,

Swimming in artificial intelligence

And anxiety.

They’ve taken my naturalistic side,

Thieved my emotional range.

They’ve inserted a complex

Recipe, eight books long.

I’m missing Mother

In this digital space,

With ambiguous conflict

Between buttons and relationships.

Answer me, though the answer

Will not be terribly original.

Shall I kill you? 

White Roses

Fragranced and frayed

The stems of white horses, a crest

Of lost lovers, mourning for decayed

Memoirs. A petal plucked, a petal falls,

A silent echo traces the lips

Foolish quips lost in childish pursuits,

Paper, perfume, pricey fruits,

A collection for Kings, yet here

Here, is the skeleton rose.

The Ten of Spades taints the bones

With the sickening scarlet he’ll imbue,

Til’ Vampires lick this crimson hue.

The clockwork of the purest mind

Clogs with clutter, when left enshrined.

Encase the prams, pushchairs, carry cots,

Dress them with the shining locks.

Inhale the scent, supposed to sedate,

So she’ll tenderly tip toe towards her fate.

For you, these White Roses bloom,

To adorn the life, and honour the tomb.