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. 

Idealism

Perhaps tis’ a dream written

With a script from the most

Idealistic love scene. Sweet scented

Fruits bloom a stretch away from my

Looking glass. Lemons, ripened, ready,

Plucked quickly with a cheeky glance.

Peter Pan who grew up too soon

Cackles and hordes the golden treasure

Into the depths of the coolest cave,

With marble floors to sooth burning feet

Pattering profanity to escape the heat.

So, if one must travel far, or if one must

Travel at all, one must look more closely

Beyond these white washed walls.

Into the green groves of the olive trees

We venture. Sweat, clinging to the skin

Masks the clear headed calculations we make,

A hop here and shuffle there, bare chested

And bare knees exposed to the prickles of

Tiny hands scratching for sustenance.

Blood trickles in abundance, streams

Of rubies tumble over a pallid page.

Yet, there is peace. A quiet afternoon

Shattered by a smiling moon, melodies

Melodies beckon to each wide eyed, doe eyed

Dancer, awkwardly gawking, talking, walking.

Is this heaven? This funny little place,

So far from a human race, where we drink

And think, and then we forget. Where the

Misty blue mountains turn green and gold

As the sunrises and a secret’s told

Two footprints in the sand, two people

And two hands, held as one with nights

On a creaky, crumbling pier and days

Spent flying high or drinking beer.

Yes, this simple scene is seen in two dreams;

An ache for liquids with lemon and lime

An ache for hours of unlimited time,

So skimpy skirts with glittered eyes

Can hunt for prey and hide in disguise. 

Happiness found and sealed in a mark

Sourced in a promise, a dare in the dark,

Secret pools, paintings, peaches,

Silent sorrys on breezy beaches,

These are the blissful creatures of my mind

Confined to memories, odd to others

In a script set for two idealistic lovers. 

The Angel and I

Talk me of love.

Love, love? Love you say?

Why, good sir, love is a figment of the mind

For those suffering with heartburn and are perhaps

A little blind in the right eye. Love does not exist

In the human persona, it is a scientific reaction

And so on, so forth. Such waffle, causing nothing

But trouble.

Hark at you! Old goat, old fool. Look to this girl.

A girl? What girl? I see a Lady, in her prime. Surely

This Lady is too wise a lady to fall for love?

Aha! A lady of love she is, a lady of the most

Pure love, true love. Her thoughts are bliss

Yet wise. Knowledge talks but she listens.

She does ponder anon, is this love? Yes!

It is, it is, it is. This is love. This moment of

Heaven, this funny feeling here – in the heart

Yet it spreads to the mind like a medicine.

A surety, contentment, yet the wildest joys

Unlocked by a boy. Who knew such a boy

Had a key to paradise?

A boy! A mere boy? Poppycock. Where is this boy

Seeming more an Angel, disguised as a saint. No

Mere mortal can make such a lady feel so fine

My lady, come to me. Talk me of love?

Aside I say, look how those eyes shine

And the parted lips bloom. A gargle, a cheep

So sweet you’d have thought she’d kissed

A peach so tenderly, so softly, it melted on her mouth.

Good lady, do entreat my ears.

I love

I love like

I love like I lost my soul to the hands of an Angel.

So wonderful is he, so tender is he. Like a cloud

Of pillows pluck from the softest tree. This is me, I say

And this is he. We are but one, yet two of a kind.

We are what we appear to be. He owes me nothing

Yet I owe him my life, my soul, my heart. I am his,

Not in shackles or chains, but with ribbons tied so carefully

Wrapped around the wrist, spreading up, up, up! All the way

To the very darkest corner. Oh alas, call me a fool, I am not.

I am the wisest fool to fall for love, yet in love did I fall.

Tell me sirs, are you happy? Are you free? With my darling

I am so, to watch him go I fear would bring about a change.

Perhaps the winds would not blow nor the rains descend to you

Yet to one in love, to be without, is to be without air.

If life was not fair, and tis’ so rarely, I would not know of love.

Yet life is not fair, tis’ not even just. For now I know love

His love is what I cannot live without.

How the old man sleeps, away in a world of slumber.

Does he dream?

Nay, one can only dream if Angels whisper in

Delicate ears. It appears that only books and tools

Provide knowledge and strength, for not in a dream

Can paper and pens provide words one can deem?

You are so assured, how be this so?

Why? Because I love, tis’ only fools whom

Suffer the ignorance of the love they forgo.

We live, we could never die

Full of love, that is

The Angel and I