Wordflair Community of Poets and Writers
In autumn days when grass is jade and lush,
the shade of trees reigns crimson hourly leaves,
belies the later white in colours' blush,
uncertain of the life which frost bereaves.
Sufficient for the spirit yet to thrive,
unfettered from the claims of summer's heat;
gives time to dwell on memories alive,
which saunter where the rump-fed squirrels meet.
They gather chestnuts on the mellowed ground
and I believe in harvest's cider quench,
a warming pulse that only there is found,
except within a red cheeked fulsome wench.
Though seasons pass with every measured glide
and winter comes to chill, here I reside.
Up and Away
A little robin perched
on a brown, tattered hat
watches the blur
of clouds breeze over
stitched straws of
yesterday and today.
Hovering on the moments
that migrate back
to early nest instincts,
in readiness for the uplift,
the flit to the off and up.
When this translates
into flight is something
little known to old hands
more adept at pointing crows
in opposite directions.
Anywhere, but on the ground,
please, for a patched-up man
who wishes he were a kite
with the colour of a bird,
and robin red would be nice,
although black as a crow
would suffice, perhaps
just the once or twice.
Time Makes a Good Pen
A lot of truths here.
They begin to tap
you upon the shoulder
with a persistence
of drumming fingers,
and while you can’t ignore
that play out so much,
you can begin to live,
with their off-beat rhythms.
They may even have
their own strain of music.
Still, I know one thing,
and that is,
when the doubts creep in,
from around the corner
and the confidence wanes
in the bottom of a coffee cup
(somehow it now
has a hairline crack in it
that you never noticed before)
that is when you should
take stock of what
you have achieved thus far
and take that moment
to quietly celebrate.
Yes, remember to do that.
No one is ever remembered
for putting nothing out there.
Keep on creating,
until the last clock has ticked
and time is no more.
snap that minute hand off,
and dip it in ink.
Time makes a good pen.
Leaf on the Windshield
Rain and a caught leaf,
a passive resistance to the wind
and it’ll be dispersed
as so many. Its beauty is its moment
of what it was once held on to,
not even drift can conceal that
in skeletal thread structure.
Spring can accommodate winter
much better than winter believes.
It’s a forgiving season,
and shines through disconnected days
so cast-offs are not chilled
even when they lose their tint,
and former maple helicopter spin.
Therein lies my hope of being
noticed through a windshield.
Under the Table
Five foot square and counting
the feet dangling bright underneath,
the space that measures sibling rivalries.
Two small, cotton socked feet
that somehow don’t reach the floor,
others that kick a sister’s legs
when opportunity strikes and words fail;
laces that have just tied the knot
loosen up in old, jealous squabbles.
Tablecloths a chequered referee
for naughts and crosswits.
Growing up into buckled boots
and fancy, stupidly expensive
red high heels.
It’s not a matter of making a mark,
but adolescence scuffing table legs
with off the cuff comments
on famous historical figures.
Nobody notices much under here, protests
lead to blank denials, playing with food,
to the pain of stiletto pressed on leather,
later to be followed by the elbow at the door
which caught me off guard.
I should never have said one new pair
a year, was plenty shoe enough for me
and a certain, Ghandi.
On The Sixth Day,
God created land creatures of every kind.
Man and woman were created last.
On The Seventh Day, he rested.
On The Eighth Day, he whipped up some
cakes which were good, but a little
sweet for such young palates.
Some considered the pastries overcooked
too, lacking that subtle, light touch he'd
leant so creatively to Day One.
On The Ninth Day, God created lightning,
thunder, lashing oily rain and the first
episode of Dr Who. The storyline of which
would only be viewed in a distant future.
There was much dissent.
Some openly voiced that he'd taken
the cake criticism far too much to heart.
On The Tenth Day, God with lips pursed
created Spam, tripe and powdered eggs.
We all decided they were indeed,
The grass is settling,
no need to mow and hoe
when dusk grows longer
than gatherings of leaves,
just to please
aesthetic ideals of winter.
The wind may litter
some dormant backyard,
blow spirals of twigs
against my weathered door,
in flake shadows of night
populate farside walls,
but morning will come
as untouched snow.
Strains of Tea
The morning clouds fell
out of the sky onto my as yet
clots of anchored steam -
an emptying kettle.
So vaporised into the day,
unpacked, it dropped into a mug
a usual formed drink.
A strange brew,
handled casually, drank
in semi thoughtless gulps,
as eyes adjusted to light
and familiar tastes.
No wonder tea is trapped in bags,
needs the release
to bring forth its qualities;
I headed out, feeling just the same.