a poem for cute wise monkeys

Not only do they see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,

but they’re cutest best buddies, times by treble.

The perfect antidote to a long-old day,

these bunches of fluff have made my soiree´.

 

 

 

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a poem for my flames of fear

 

On a good day I see in the flames

a dancing horse, swishing tail

head upright, ears aloft,

prancing to the heat of the fire,

soul alight with joy.

 

On a bad day I see in the flames

a devilish anger that burns down

all my hard work, a ghoulish glee

that turns my dreams to ash,

hope depleted, plans destroyed.

 

NaPoWriMo 2018 day 8: the whispers of a tomb

Stand tall, stand true.

Find balance in what you do.

 My four diamond holes

to help find what you extol.

My three central blocks

to stay firm against life’s knocks.

The column at my core

to align with what you adore.

The security at my base,

to remind you to live with grace.

Tides come, tides go,

time shoots its arrows.

Stand true, stand tall.

One day you won’t be here at all.

 

NaPoWriMo 2018 day 7: critic & creator

 

We’re broken and bruised,

battered from birth,

we were built so fundamentally wrong.

The world makes life so bloody hard.

Just give up trying to

create or belong.

 

You break my heart

with your wounded ways.

We’re not defined by our past.

Yet you’ve kept me stuck for five decades

with your sneers, your pokes,

my sad little un-started drafts.

 

Too right there: I get my kicks

when I sit on your shoulder,

sabotaging all that you ‘write’.

You’re far too old for all that hope

now in life you’ve reached

your twilight.

 

That’s enough! I’ve had an idea

about wounds and abuse and stuff.

If I begin to transform all of our pain

into fables strong and true,

you’ll lose your hold over my head

and my heart will take the reins.

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NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 6: my anxious life

That sense of dread, that

pull in the depths of

my stomach that

absorbs my days and steals my nights, that

smothers my thoughts with a heavy

blanket of angst. That

happy life that eludes me, that

love that never truly feels

real, only that dread that idles and

festers is solid and true.

NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 4: my garden of spirituality

 

It’s the quality and direction of light that tells me

of presence, of a beam, of something greater than me.

Like torchlight from an invisible source,

it pools between thick leaves, through autumn cloud,

illuminating the darkest part of my garden.

 

The new-grown laurels have taken root,

wildly, greenly, not caring they’re uneven, mismatched.

They huddle around the scraggy old wooden bench

with its rectangle feet set firmly in the shingle:

a bench with a view, that leaves you with a sore behind.

 

The cheeky red berries shine crimson in the sunshine of youth

amidst the demure and dappled undergrowth,

their cherry fire and beaded little heart in full-bloom denial

of any future state of wither or decay.

An so shines the purity of that insistent beam of light.