The Blizzard

Across a Surreal landscape
White defeats the green
Black naked branches
Reach towards low slung clouds
As snow flurries lash
Exposed skin on cheerful faces
We shelter in each other’s warmth
And conversations of sunshine
Promoted by
Wine, good gin and pizza.

The road out.

More words

Am I a witch?
A word witch
Capable of casting
Protective spells 
To distract a troubled mind?
To make eyes smile
While faces weep.

To rip concentration
From the memory
Of a roadside accident
And highlight the colour –
The amazing colour –
Of that pedestrians hair. 

Could it be that I give freely
Or am I somehow paid by the simple act
Of writing these words,
Which distract me from
Personal demons and
Discomforting thoughts?

Could it be that my words
Are like the spray paint
Of a street artist?
Loved by some
Reviled by others,
A simple distraction to most.
 
Inside me,
Words are pleasure and pain
Joy and fear.
And the surprise is,
Those same words to you
Can create the opposite…

Move them around.
Let them settle.

Maybe then I will be paid
With a gentle smile
At the corner of your eyes. 

No

In a bed

Or a car.

On a plane

Or a train.

In the long grass

Or a barren beach.

Against a wall

Or a kitchen table.

As long as it isn’t

Against a will.

Haiku (ironic)

patiently trees wait
to praise each glor’ous sunrise
poems on paper

Wind

It is said; if you wear an ugly face

When the wind changes –

Your face will stay that way.

If the wind changes

While my heart is broken –

Will it stay that way too?

 

From the west it came

Carrying dust and sandflies.

My skin dried and grit filled my eyes.

I felt I’d never be the same.

 

This ill wind had blown no good.

To my despair was added discomfort.

Hopes for peace had come up short –

I let myself fall.

Murmur 3

On any still night

When the clouds are low

And the city lights,

Create an orange glow.

 

You may perceive it.

Maybe not in the first instant

But with time you might

Come to notice the remnant.

 

It’s the noise that’s left behind

As society goes about its business –

The machineries daily grind.

It’s an eerie, almost silence.

 

You’ll know it from the time

You’re sweetheart touched your hand

In that crowded five and dime

The murmur, the only sound that remained.

 

And as you stand at sea’s shore

On this calm, steamy evening

You can hear it once more,

The hum of lives out there – living.

Precipitous

At this precipice  –

When everything falls aside

When relevance is intimate

Is colour unquestionably brighter

Is salt air now honestly sweet

Are priorities still valid

Are beliefs still as profound

Or has reality given wings to life

Or perhaps lit a previously dark path

Then step back and taste this life

Then begin to live on your terms

Now you have made the choice –

Now you are free.