My day,

My day is not young
my day is not old
my day is not buried beneath the soul.
One day you will find it
and it will speak out to you
"good morning, good noon, good night,"
then explode with flight
ecstatic you'll affix your sight,
whilst dusk brings tidings
and dear day will disapparate,
perhaps to a far corner of some parallel.

Messy fragments scattered
along your weeping smile,
lickable memories for a fond friend
upon distant isles
of the same galactic supermarket.
My day, some day.

Little Riding

It niggles the gelatine bit,

tilted lids and slightly bit lower lip.
If I were to-
it would never end,
one moment delirium
is my larger,
the next I can't handle

a half.
Leave/ stay
I daren't.
So long distilled solitude
and your unrefined path,
I cannot care
but you pump the liquid so neatly
it's best to stick to the levelled cement,
ride out the wolfy.

Able

When you are able
to own up to the pen
that bled that tear,
you wont be able to write
a single truth
to it.

Inside the ribcage

Hello,
here is an art version of my poem Inside the ribcage :)
http://tinyurl.com/739r54y

Also links onto my facebook fan page if you would bless me with a like :) xx

P.S HAPPY NEW YEAR

The rolling twenties

I'm in love with a sailor
who cruises deadly swamps,
his eyes are scarce under his eyelashes
though big as the pools he plunders,
so I can't tell what he is thinking
whilst his lips move or cease to part.

I'm in love with a sailor
who has emptied my heart,
of it's liver, of it's guts, of its frost bitten blood.
In place there is dewy bark,
of my ever complicated woods-
but like the rain forests drenched in sun
the floor is an eclipse of it's stature.

I'm in love with a sailor
who rids me of all life,
and I am to live
as ever in the darkness of knights.
Dear traveller I cannot see you so far off,
my eyes are over age
for the dreams you left me to lead
me, in that other universe...

but without them,
what, without them?
Shelves of ideas of words of numbers of
realities that drain lemons
to make bitter lemonade.

Happy New Year :) DVerse Poets and The Poetry Palace poets too x

http://dversepoets.com/

http://promisingpoetsparkinglot.blogspot.com/

Dear Quiet thing

Dear Quiet thing
your slumber is unblushed.

lithe and forbidden
my desires tousle my spines,
dear coffee, dear shower, dear bed
you're not quite as divine.

Breathe catches my tongue
mid-fight,
sober the sombre daylight,
with guilty mane without much to tell.

Dear Quiet thing
your slumber is unblushed,
lace snapped and gnarled
I am heaving mockery
and dust on your little soul.

Our forgetful ballet.

Oh Quiet thing,
oh my quiet things.

Waltzing the void

I am being the coward I loathed,
shady under my clothed
skins,
the beds re-made day to day,
scratching as old leaves fall;
my body is always in autumn.

Certainty heavy,
I already miss,
I simply do not know what to do.

But I know I cannot commit to problems
and I know I cannot commit to solutions.
I am an allusion amidst the mirror,
but the host
is unrecognisable.

This is my post for the Gooseberry Garden and DVerse Poets, I'm afraid it's miscellaneous really, but here it is anyhow. Thank you for reading :) x

Analytic puddles

I will speak statistic,
interpret eyelashes,
look at walls which only invite
the collection of spacious nothings.

Peggles

Hello,

This is my poem for the The Gooseberry Garden Week 13. For me childhood, dreams, books and role models all fit in one, they float around in my inner child, and I don't think I'll ever grow up and out of their ingrained memory. I hope you enjoy it.

Peggles

I've never been special
but in my heart and yours.

Cave-scribing till I understood
whilst singing in the garden.

The last time my hair fell in my eyes,

I'd become grown.

Shoelaces binding stories
and my sketches
to memories that
can no longer breathe alone.

My clouded head
grazing on love,
I will try to avoid walking
with my hands in my pockets-
I promise.

Inside the ribcage

She's difficult-
interchangeable, indescribable.
Incoherent.

And until we're in agreement
my mind can't keep up.

Inside the ribcage

nest upon nests are made,

and maybe I am in there too.

Compass to masses:

stranded out here,
in your beautiful arms- outstretched
across the miles
that descend loneliness.

That ascend her clots.

Picnic on the marrow,
she beats a thousand drums;
land, home, hereafter.
Tomorrow it will be plain,
and tonight in vain.

The Musics On

Like the common thread we sew

of the ink running through my torso

like the common waves rise

to make the cliff crashing demise

that laps them back to the sea,

You and me,

the worlds biggest profanity

whispering shell oceans

and paint splattered commotions

the artist plays

on the canvas ways

humanity.