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

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.

A Tree Speaks

Our mountain home is a good placeWe are green of leaf and, fair of face

The raven’s wing covers our scars

And we trail our branches beneath the stars

Dance by the light of the cherry moon

Fearing the furious heat of June

When Our brothers fell in their habitat

Mown down by fiery flames so that

Some concrete blocks could take their home

And concrete people with hearts of foam

Will park their Eco-friendly vans

In villas carved from forestland

We trees our home ground cannot choose

In a war with man, we always lose.

A poem in praise of breastfeeding

Daddy’s sinking underGlorious weight 

It is a grand mix

 of all the energy – butter, salt

And sugars we could find and fix

New cells growing, plant fibers, 

cereals and breads giving nutrition and

Proteins from fishes

Oils too for those shiny eyes

Strengthen the sight we need to see – Vitamin D – we always need

More and more – 

more and more carrots for cold climate kids

Sunlight for sons born too soon

Salts and fats all included in the pack

The necessary niceties of night 

The darkness is never so black

Mama is ready at the drop – of a hat, not a spoon

And good – “it’s ready

Soon as I can, wash my hands

Ok let’s go hand him here

Daddy you go back, to sleep

I’ve got this I’ll keep him growing

He’s a growing boy”

Glorious weight, full of joy

(And milk of course)

Thunderbirth (poetry prompt #1)

Ominous, malevolent

 pregnant-bellied

Cloud entwined within 

Herself and without – that

Soot-colored Sky

The turbulent and wild Sky

The air waves are fiZzling 

The cracking static hymns

Praising the parson at this demented wedding.

The wedding band strikes UP

A guitar twang and crash of drums

The flow of favorites come thick and fast

And the bride and groom twirl around 

Each other and faster

And faster

And faster they move,

Pulling their guests in their wake

and that dark pregnant belly breaks 

its water,

And we all attend the labour

The child, a girl

A daughter

April the first

The afterbirth 

Spring.