How

How can I fix you?

You with sage beyond my realm, a foreign feeling  –

You who trades words as super glue, bonding thoughts  –

You the listener at the mind’s hearth, catching sparks.

 

How can I help you?

It’s not my place to walk where angels bury their dead –

It’s not my job to save those who fear the shadow cast –

It’s not my time to calm the quivering of your heartbeat.

 

How can I show you?

I wish to unveil your mind to this flame deep within –

I feel it burn on purified oil, left from noble desires –

I sense not a passing passion which wilts as it flowers.

 

How can I be?

If I could cradle you so gently as the child I never had –

If I could banish your bad dreams with a kiss to the forehead –

If I could paint you in my feelings warm as burnished ochre.

 

Yet your being shines so brightly, it floods my words with smiles.

 

‘Prism’ takes flight

Today I was given the most wonderful surprise!

I am extremely honoured and delighted to share with you a recording of my very own poem ‘Prism’ https://phoenixofthelinnet.wordpress.com/2012/04/06/prism/

read by my lovely friend from Twitter @wilsenior who has not only recorded it, but created a beautiful video to set his reading into.

So without any further words from me:

I am overwhelmed at such a beautiful creation!

My most humble thanks again to Will 🙂 x

The Tea Party (Jacquie’s poem)

There was a buzz in the air of excitement

as she powdered the pot plants in glitter

spreading linen and lace tops onto polish

you could see she was all of a dither.

 

Then she drew out her finest bone china

poured emerald tea leaves in the strainer,

she giggled with glee at the very thought

of the party she had planned before her.

 

Garbo sighed with a disdainful resignation

stalking out from the room to her boudoir,

while Lancelot scuttled happily at her heels

then he sneezed setting fire to the curtains.

 

The guests then arrived in a flurry of kerfuffle

dragons jostling for balance on the balcony.

Madam M graced the room with love hearts

while Sir P poured fresh coffee and walnuts.

 

Master J sung his greetings in Jamaican verse

as Mistress S plucked the strings on her lyre.

Lady Lou and her Knight danced the fox-trot

and Miss Q teased Lord Grassman to join her.

 

Lady Fu did declare this party her best ever

while Lancelot snuck fairy cakes in the corner.

Up from the teapot came a quiet rumbling snore

‘Don’t worry’ said Sir P ‘it’s only the Dormouse

she’s so tired I don’t think we can blame her.’

Scrumping (Peter’s poem)

It was inside that type of lazy summers day

somewhere between late August and noon,

the first time that I saw him standing there

with mild mischief smeared across his face

and a gleeful grin that broke so suddenly

stray as a sunbeam falling from the canopy.

He was staring most intently down from that tree

I doubted he even noticed me, go stumbling below.

Until I heard him shout “catch this one please”

down it tumbled shining reddish gold, smooth

to touch, I felt the curves of Scallywag as it formed.

“Whatever are you doing up there?” I called

Intrigued to find this face among the branches

“So you don’t you know?” he exclaimed in disbelief

“why scrumping for the finest words of course”

*a very non-birthday poem*

Evening Classes (Marsha’s Poem)

Her purposeful clicks are echoing up from the yellow brick floor

as she strides towards the door in her immaculate ruby slippers.

The bubbling chatter fades as she slowly turns the doorknob

only a single curl of sapphire smoke still rises in the corner

vanishing in mortification at a twitch of her dark arched eyebrow.

She surveys the gathered faces, her eyes sparkle in anticipation

“Shall we begin” she says, in a voice that tastes like lemon drops

falling from rainbow skies, high above the bluebirds join in song.

They practice their scales in glorious full Technicolor

coiling their tales into the moon, till the night’s cool air glows purple.

As she smiles the room ignites, flames billowing to the heavens.

She releases the tiny silver stars from her dark velvet pockets

“wonderful” she cries “and now, who will fly me home tonight?”

Prism

What is our life, that we so full of fear’s white noise
are cowering hidden behind our long ashen shadows.

Each morning we rise with the rainbow prism of possibilities
held in our cold damp hands and each time place it aside.

We talk of priorities, politics and finance like the whine of electricity
that is seeping through the leaking pipe of our aching bodies.

Greetings of weather forecasts, compliments and head nods
we plough the time and air together endlessly with our clocks.

Around us the world does not stop and stare at our madness
It does not arrest our burning flames, our charring bones.

It patiently waits, turning on its axis, meandering between
night and day, sauntering into the seasons, blending colours softly.

This morning I will cast open the curtains, chasing the fear away
and hold this crystal up to the sunlight, releasing my soul to fly.

 

(Dedicated to Arthur Jenner, beloved father, grandfather and great grandfather who passed away, aged 91 on Good Friday 06/04/12 the morning I wrote this poem. Who I will always love and miss)