Where Are The Clouds

where are the clouds to which I prayed
this morning for their blessed rain
faded like some ancient scars
or as a long forgotten stain
yet still I long to feel their balm
the gentle kiss of their refrain
as I must weep for this burning land
and need their tears to hide my pain.

My Heart Is Made of Little Birds

my heart is made of little birds
though they cannot soar, they fly
in ways that winds can fathom not
and through the hardest rains reply
by taking wing despite the days
that try in vain to spirits break
so in my heart these birds do sing
and of its clay a soul can make.

A Simple Love Poem

I would to sleep eternal
never more to rise
and dream of colours vernal
held within your eyes,

yet if by chance my slumbers end
and my dreams would break
I pray your glance mine would find
the moment I should wake.

Painting Rain

a sorrowful new dawn descends
in rainstorms painted by the night
which in their darkened shades do render
glassy shadows to the light.

no watercoloured dreams are these
its strokes are bold and without guile
and draughted with such cold unease
ill comfort in both form and style.

so paints the rain in this last spring
yet soon an artist young awakes
with pastel palette colours singing
for when summer’s first morning breaks.

Woeful Wind

woeful is the summer wind
which wakes wild poppies’ heads
from narcotic dreams kind
that held them in their winter beds

Let Us Pray For Rain

If a bird should love a fish
let them have their way
and do not give a moment’s thought
to what the wise men say
for more than love can ne’er be found
in this wild world insane
and should their passions need release
then let us pray for rain.

Exhale

when you look at me
the moment is so fragile
I dare not exhale

Beyond

each word is written
beyond their initial form
are hidden desires

Just Rhyming To See What Comes Out.

let the winds come
and lay waste to the land
whatever they bring
this heart will still stand
it’s built on foundations
as deep as they’re wide
of love’s soft salvation
and not simple pride.

The start and end of a rhyme which is missing its middle.

The laggered wag
drew on his fag
and pondered on his day
as smoke rings rose
his mind supposed
that on his bench he’d stay
he could of course
decide to force
himself to move, but sighed
why bother to
have things to do
I’ll just watch the world go by.