painting birds

There were no bluebirds over
the white cliffs of Dover
so we dipped a pigeon
in some dye
but even with a run up
he couldn’t get himself up
so we thought we’d give
a cormorant a try

(tbc)

5-7-5 (take one-hundred-and-seventy-two : a painting)

in Constable skies
all my fantasies fly free
and I race skylarks

Something for the weekend?

Penelope Keith’s perfect Sunday
the great smell of Brut
lather, rather, rinse.

Ed Stewpot’s pick of the pops
crushed velvet stretch covers
snip, comb, snip

Happiness is a cigar by shh! You know who
Vorsprung durch technik
buzz, buzz, buzz

Something for the weekend?

and on the third day

do not weep
for chocolate sheep
or rabbits
made of candy
I got a tick
hypoglycemic
and they were
all rather handy

Yesterday

we crossed the devil’s bridge
and as the tide turned
from sun flecked silver
to molten gold
and the last warm breath
of the dying day
kissed our faces
I turned
and I kissed yours
for good measure

embryonic song notes on the nightstand

before I was me
I’d sing the songs
that I wanted to be
but that was my springtime
that was before
now I don’t sing
those songs anymore

An Ocean Of Dreams (a short fiction as prose)

each day
she wrote wishes,
secret desires
on scraps
of tissue paper
consumed them
in a candle’s flame,
the burnt ashes,
like blackened herbs
between her fingertips,
she spread
upon the sand
and waited
till the sunset
and for the evening tide
to take them far
out to sea.

verse for which I needed to look up the spelling of daffodil

decapitated daffodils
and a resurrected rose
sunshine eating butterflies
is how the garden grows

the tell all heart : a short fiction as prose

she wrapped her heart
in a garbage bag
gold plated and
encrusted with jewels,
crystalised tears
of both joy and pain
from the brief moments
she’d allowed her guard
to fall.

lines written on a journey home

I met a nervous horse today
near a nest of ants
she looked a little anxious
that they’d sneak into her pants
’twas on the road to Banbury Cross
where wagtails flew and flocked
and a minstrel passed us by
though his mount was cocked
he whistled on a humbug flute
a tune I thought I knew
but when I heard him sing along
I didn’t have a clue
despite the dischord ‘twixt us both
we seemed to part as friends
if for no reason than he helped
bring this ditty to its end