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. 

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