Beautiful Weed

Beautiful Weed

I applaud the ability to

hold a bud of words

and transform them into

an exotic blossom of language.

 

I see my writing more

in terms of a dandelion;

(no offence to this

humble weed),

 

whose modest flower

becomes a ball of tufted

fruits which, if blown far

enough to reach me,

may stay just long enough

to procreate.

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Byegone Days??

Byegone Days??

 

I noticed the “fluffy”

white(grey) rabbit

nestled cosily on your

bedroom window,

tail dangling on a

thread of frail cotton.

Then I noticed more.

The small framed tapestry

of a butterfly

you crafted when you

were eight years old;

you called her Emily;

A Plaster of Paris hedgehog,

years of dust caught in his spikes,

and painted half-heartedly

when you lost interest.

Then the puzzling rectangle

of wood, varnished,

with a hole in the top.

(You did tell me what it was).

All, perhaps,  unnoticed by others;

each with a detailed history,

a fountain of memories

and a daily reminder

that you will

always be

my children.

A bit of fun after a difficult day!

Just a bit of fun after a difficult day yesterday.

 

Don’t look in the mirror after a shower

 

I have never had the

unpleasant experience

of being witness at the

scene of a drowned rat.

 

However, after an early

morning shower, it is

highly likely that

I resemble one.

 

Tell me how it is that all female

participants in the film world,

after going through the

exact same process,

emerge, looking much more

than capable of seducing

the man of their dreams.

 

Unless, of course,

it’s just me.

Through The Wood

I could see through the wood and brass

his body, cold, lifeless.

A seafaring man fighting for country,

raising three children,

ministering prayers.

I search persistently for that lost life,

its fullness, its vibrancy.

Maybe it is in the strange flower

I found in the garden,

the one I know I didn’t plant.

Or in the poem that writes itself,

seamlessly, despite me.

Life not extinguished, transposed.