Painter’s Muse

You stood stock still in the golden hour

Your brush dangled from your hand as you scrutinised the scene

It was the first time I’d watched you work

And the joy and the freedom were almost more than I could handle.

If I moved – to speak or to scratch,

You would gesture impatiently for me to resume my stance,

The crickets clicked their deafening wings

While the lowering sun engulfed us both in its splendour.

The heat of the day would not subside, but would linger

Long into the hot summer night, the mosquitoes usurping the crickets

Your sensual, gentle strokes continuing,

As your final touches transformed the wasteland around us into paradise

Running on Fumes

If ​a final fume were found

In the recess of my tank

I could keep on running round

And I’d let my mind stay blank

If a final fume were found

At the bottom of my lungs

I would exhale it all around 

As I let my song be sung

If that final fume were found

At the end of a long day

I could run another hour

To see the ones who had to stay

When those final fumes are found

In my life of joy and toil

I can keep running on fumes 

And forget about the oil

poetic injustice

I write what I would

Like to read and sometimes

I Even try to rhyme and not put too many words in one line
But then again 

Poetry can

Be surprising.

Beautiful.

Lyrical, lurid, unbelievably empty and always

Unpredictable.

When I read it, I say – my God I’d love to write

Like that!

But I follow my patterns

I write what I would 

Like to read and maybe even sometimes,

Someone,

Somewhere,

Thinks it’s pretty good.

Horses for Courses

I’m wrapped up in liquid – whiskey or rum

No sign of my lungs failing, but my heart is overcome

You are playing my organs with a serrated spoon

A gutsy concerto by the light of the moon.
The music is yours, hours upon days

Living for moments in the moon’s gentle gaze

An impassioned plea for your time, nothing more

But this dream was a harbinger of the nightmare in store
I wake up alone, you are gone.

Taking the sun, taking our song

I choke on a torrent of bile and of blood

The visions I’ve seen but never understood

The Prince sleeps

As Shakespeare said: ‘what dreams may come’?

Lying spreadeagled under the moon

no tension there but an occasional moan,

Morning light will come too soon.

Resting on his laurels now

The leaves of which will flavour

His dream meals of tomorrow, 

And the joys he has yet to savour.

And his throne will hide his tired eyes

Imperiously drained,

He dreams not yet of how far he’ll rise,

The future cannot be explained

So slumber on, little prince, 

With carefree snores and whines

What dreams may come, no one can tell,

But tonight your dreams are your design.

Daily Post prompt – Prophecy

Fixed loosely or uselessly on your frame of reference,
This prophecy sees you in bold, deep reflection.
Spun out on a loom of massive intent,
The sun on your skin looms large in the night.
Fast and fiery that you are,
The stars test your integral gloom
Like a handful of paint chips from a neon car
You show nothing in the day of course,
Killing time, encircling high above
The predictions we all believe we know,
For you foreordained by law
An empty corner of the beastly sky
is where you will make your destiny

Zoophobia

Fur (n.) a covering of hair, often found on animals and human young 

 

Furry cute little creatures.

Creatures that bite,

Bite at your nose,

hands and

Ears

They sense your presence

And your fears

You can never go by

That cage in the window

Without those

glassy

black

Eyes

Staring. you. out.

Out of the cage

Out of sight.

Years pass by and you say you’re

All right.

They won’t harm you

‘Can’t.

Probably not even alive’

But their trace survives

Inside your head

Your brain cage

Between your ears

And although you know that they are dead,

You still feel

the.                                               Terror

Instilled in you

By the fur years