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.

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.