One of my favourites, which was recently published in North West Words magazine. 
Category: poetry
Lunchtime lyric
The tiny meal for tiny hands
It seems so easy to understand.
The plate is never finished, it’s true
But that has never bothered you.
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.
Marooned
This was a poem written in response to this post Long Lost At The Shore – http://wp.me/p6zoPj-6U by Frank Solanki. Thanks Frank.
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.
