poetry diary

Poetry is just the evidence of your life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash. (Leonard Cohen)

Category: Love poems

A jelly baby

And what remains of love is this;
a pack of jelly babes.
“Give these to your mum,” he says,
and turns away to shield
his tears.

Fifty four sweets are in that bag;
one for each year of coloured days.
This one tastes of ’65,
that one of ’91 –
all gone.

“She still likes these, sometimes,” he says,
“as far as I can tell.”
She takes one more, unsmiling,
and heads towards the door,

of who she is or who we are,
or why these little bumpy things
still seem to mean so much to us
and feel so warm and moist,

defining something once well known
she feels is lost or yet to come,
but will not find her now.
There must be something new
to do.

Across the room the curtains close,
and in the fading evening light,
a single jelly baby lies
alone; her lover’s furious final wail –
of farewell.


Jelly babies are traditional English sweets. People with dementia seem to like sweets.

Posted on d’Verse Open Link night.


It almost snowed this morning;
odd flakes distracted in the air,
like girls with secret crushes
blushing in his sideways stare.

I almost loved a woman;
odd moments that connected,
like snowflakes sparkling in her hair –
yet which, as courage, later melted.

We almost spoke of feelings;
unsaid, not settling; but biding,
baying – like wolves in winter
from mountains with dusk falling.

Lives almost changing daily,
and landscapes almost smothered
by almost snow and almost love:
almost makes us days to covet.


Actually from a week ago – it’s got warmer since then.

Posted on dVerse open link  night

At Baddesley Clinton

Through centuries of Octobers’
windless days; quiet leaf falls
kiss and hold the ageing ground
like hands, that bind the earth and lake;
ancient lovers tired now, and still –
recalling (not yet awaiting)

Trees like memories hold
this latest year a few days yet;
caught between times, now and past –
softening under autumn light
and silent as prophets.

Footsteps and words, like bricks
and lily pads – uncounted
but complete, and bringing shelter
these six hundred years, to priests
and artists, and now to you and me;
stirring gentle eddies in the air.


Baddesley Clinton is a moated late medieval manor house in Warwickshire, England. It has beautiful informal and human-scale grounds.

The unsaid goodbye

Rising to the surface of an empty lake,
a single leaf
like an unsaid goodbye,
too late for autumn.

Ripple-ringed dark waters,
light-lost, strive
to recall sun-splitting orange-gold
days of October.

Reflected forest, broken
by the troubled surface, promises,
touching leaf edge;
that gravity and time will turn again.

But I recall you smiling as we swam,
and memories dissolve,
like autumn leaves,
in the rain.


For Hj.

Posted on dVerse

I saw a fern leaf in a raindrop

I saw a fern leaf in a raindrop,
that quivered as it touched the sun,
and threw its sphere around the sky,
then sighed, and fell.

I saw the weather in a river,
flowing eastwards with the evening;
and draining moonlight from the air
leaving murmurs.

I recall bright starlight in your eyes,
which spoke softly and from your heart,
and made my thoughts condense to be
only of you.


I saw a fern leaf reflected in a raindrop last Wednesday. Since then I have wanted to write a poem about it. This poem is for htv, with thanks for 2011 and much more.

Posted on dVerse.


Your fingers touching
mine, as snow settles outside:
I feel them still.


For haiku heights September challenge.

Blue Moon

The roses bloomed twice,
and nobody noticed but
you – who stole my heart.


For Chevrefeuille’s Tackle it Tuesday prompt.

A Reflective Valentine

Soft, the imprint of your soul on mine,
like footprints in the melting snow;
I try to hold your shape and sense
your absent touch, your force, our past
held in my ice, then forming pools.
My heart beats as the sun, moving
through the sky, shimmers in crystal
echoes of your last goodbye.


Inspired by the last remnants of our recent snowfall, around the edges of the tennis court this evening, and someone I haven’t seen for a few months, and miss.

After the time of the bees

It was after the time of the bees
she bloomed alone, a single rose
among thorns; scented and white, I see
her petals, pink-edged in the dawn light
of those final days.

I could have wings, and buzz, a bit, at
least – or hum. My shorts are yellow too
and I have a stripy shirt. I like
honey, and flowers, and I dream of meadows,
despite my being a man.

So I landed on your petals, and
sipped your dew. Scented with longing, you
helped me sleep, and we dreamed together
alone, of times of bees and roses,
until your petals fell.


Posted on dVerse Poets, open link night.

Never leave burning candles unattended


silent like swans;


Your candles:
warm light


slow shadows;


ancient ways
of seeing

through darkness,


Remembering, like candlelight.
Keep away from children, and
handle with care.


Posted on dVerse Poets January 24 2012