poetry diary

It’s when water drops from re-born leaves
frustrated petrol-grey clouds turn to pink
and the scents of sodden concrete mingle;
mixed now with earth, and grass, and life, and air;
senses sharpened and bright to fight the storm
are too awake for this – a world returned
to peace and light at last:

just like after making love
the sun breaks through,
and the world is new

again.

The storm and earth lie fulfilled.

———————–

This poem is for Jingle Poetry Potluck “Thunderstorms, floods and water fury”.

You stood out from the crowd only slightly,
and the fear of loneliness came to me
and said “you cannot go”.

You waved, and held your hand to me. I cried,
but said nothing, enveloped in my fear.
The seasons passed us by.

It was warm in the crowd at first, I felt,
and the superficial kindnesses built
some semblance of loving.

Until I discovered the way to love
must pass through loneliness first; that dull fear
destroyed by true lovers.

It’s a long time since you waved, and the space
where you were is lost now, in the cold crowd.
It’s my turn to stand out.

———————-

Submitted to Poets United.

Under this awning, feeling like van Gogh.
People of the city passing, watch me
with empty eyes, seeing only others.
Beer on the table, a scooter passes.
Noises, unlistened to, become stronger
And everyone seems alone, just like me;
lassoed momentarily by this light.
Under this awning, feeling like van Gogh.

———————

In London for a conference.

Behind the veil, like shadows on the moon,
her eyes dark above waiting cheeks and lips,
the unknown bride arrives, collapsing space
and time – focusing all the world on her;
mystery still, after each thousand years.
A father felt he knew the girl at last,
until this moment came. Behind the veil
she is apart, that special place between
old lives and new potentialities.
Pity both father and the naked groom
(it is not fair, this deal, this power, her light);
ski poles to her great slalom of delight.

————

Possibly a meditation on recent weddings, but intended as more general reflection I think. Submitted to Poets United.

Unsure of his direction, he sought the sun.
Long gone, the shadows of treetops teased the moon.
No compass but your own, said the fox, bright eyed in the dark,
and vanished after a shrew, under a holly bush.

Sounds suggested purpose elsewhere, sharpening his gloom.
The clock ticked, and ticked again.
It was suddenly cold.

In the morning, his neighbours found a new tree in the forest,
covered with moss.

————————-

My contribution to this week’s Thursday Poet’s Rally – free verse.

————————-

Thank you for the Perfect Poet Award – you can find the other winners here.

I nominate Emily Jane.

Here’s a little haiku about poetry for Jingle.

Without poetry
a grey world eats everyone.
You make it such fun!

Thanks again.