February 2017

February 1st 2017

It is always the little things.

The small moments. They matter.

It is what makes you Stop –

Pause – Think. It matters.

It matters. Reflect. Know.

Feel it. Really feel it and

sink into the moment. It

is the little things that matter.

 

 

February 2nd 2017

Glass, burnished with red,

the roses that never bloom.

No need for the sun.

 

 

February 3rd 2017

A trilogy. Three parts of a whole.

A precedent of three heads

being better than two. Or one.

 

Past

Present

Future

 

Alone and together the world

is braided. Held together by

three strands. The pattern is set.

 

 

February 4th 2017

First, we remember.

Second, we quickly forget.

Third, we are all new.

 

 

February 5th 2017

Spilling into hours

Falling, always falling

In a steady stream

Wearing away at everything

The world tips, turns

On it’s head but

Constant falling with

No pauses and no

Differences as tumbling

Spilling into hours

The sand in the glass.

 

 

February 6th 2017

Hearts twisted.

Stomachs churning.

Loss listed.

Dark lurking.

Time wasted.

Land burning.

Excess tasted.

Evil luring.

 

 

February 7th 2017

A pretty dress of blue silk,

stopping above the ankles,

hemmed with silver thread

which decorates the wrists.

A pretty dress for a pretty boy.

 

 

February 8th 2017

Curl up and dream of gain,

Winter Child who has lost,

but is not lost.

 

Forget about the Spring,

despite the evidence of thaw,

just rest, Winter Child.

 

You are in the hollows

and you are the icy wind

which teases and taunts.

You steal the only warmth

worth stealing in the night.

 

Winter Child, warmth is fleeting

as the chill is not what you feel

it is what you are.

 

Rest, my dear snowflake.

Sleep, my Winter Child.

I will sing you a lullaby.

 

 

February 9th 2017

A poem is a curious thing,

to rhyme I need only write spring,

sometimes I can’t help but sing,

a poem can be a silly thing.

 

 

February 10th 2017

Frost spreads outwards,

up to meet the fallen

and settles, carves, covers.

Open your eyes. Open them!

Can you not see? Your eyes

are as clouded as your

judgment. Who are you

to judge? Cold hearts.

Cold heart. Cold. Why?

Open your eyes. Can you

not feel the ice which is

creeping with hushed patience?

A balm to those who

scream as the blaze is

unwanted. A coffin for those

who cannot keep the fire

raging despite their wishes.

Pretty blue and white

and clear and pure.

Fires die but Frost is waiting.

You will not see it if you

do not open your eyes.

 

 

February 11th 2017

Throw away the word ‘limit’

and focus on the possibilities

that twin with the word ‘endless’.

Remember and be remembered

in all that you do and reach

For there is no real limit at all.

 

 

February 12th 2017

Are you worried? My hollow love.

Empty hands. Empty heart. Empty.

Nothing but open spaces caged

in a thin glass shell, as fragile as a

soap bubble. Will I break you so

that the Nothing which is inside

of you spills out from the cracks?

Will the pressure become too much

until you shatter with a scream? I

have nothing to replace the Nothing

where perhaps your soul sat once.

Hollow. Empty. Spaces.

 

 

February 13th 2017

Caressed by sunlight

The early gentle morning

kisses you awake.

 

 

February 14th 2017

You claim to dislike your many freckles

but I would spend eternity, if I could,

mapping them with the tips of my

fingers and the soft caress of my

mouth against your softer skin.

I love to watch as the sunlight

bathes you in warmth and your

freckles stand out against your skin

and your plush lips curve upwards

in a smile you cannot stop

as you laugh and tell me, “I

don’t like my freckles.” But you

do not hide from the sun any more

than they do, my pretty love.

 

 

February 15th 2017

Dragged across and smeared.

Red. Gold. Blue. Green. Purple.

Each fingerprint a colour chosen

at random or maybe on purpose.

They blur together and make a

pretty mess across a canvas that

is not a canvas at all but is my

favourite medium to work with.

Art is art is art is art is art is art.

The joy in the movement of each

swirl and dot and splatter.

My hands drip, bleed, with colour.

Forget the paintbrushes and

the paper. Make art live louder

than it has before. What does

Art mean? No answer. No need.

Chose all of the colours.

 

 

February 16th 2017

I would rather hear you

than any other sound.

Every sound you gift to me

is the sweetest melody.

Soft whispers when night

draws in is pianissimo.

Your fiery rage against

injustice is fortissimo.

A round: let me hear you

again and again and again

until the only music

I understand is you.

 

 

February 17th 2017

Tell me a story and

I will return the favour.

Words trip from my tongue

but the meaning is no less sincere.

Pauses. Stops. Stammers.

An organic thing, a living tale,

that grows and shakes

and moans and groans.

The words are waiting,

hesitating, and may or

may not become the story

you want to hear.

 

 

February 18th 2017

Silent and softly dreaming

of the Green Wood waiting

for Fate to twist the path

my feet follow until I am

walking through Shadows older

than Time who plays like

a child beneath the Oaks.

 

Reality is subjective. The Fae

sing with sweet voices and

tell pretty lies until you lie

amongst the sodden, mossy

bracken and you are wreathed

in the ever-present Shadows

that claim all who dwell.

 

It is a place for being and

a place for being the Lost.

One of many who followed

their feet in the hopes that

they would not awaken to Dawn

for they listened to the stories

of Changelings. We look for home.

 

 

February 19th 2017

Hush, my Summer child.

The sunshine will protect you.

Live for the love days.

 

 

February 20th 2017

I am nothing more than what I am,

Complex and contradictory, a jigsaw puzzle

with so many pieces left to fit that,

I am constantly discovering new facets

of myself. A puzzle but I will play

no games with you and if you

want to help me put together

the pieces I would not object,

but I have been working patiently

and I have pieced together the corners.

 

 

February 21st 2017

The mug, clasped between the palms of my hands

and bright yellow spills over the edge onto my plate

as I sit and wait for decisions to be made about

what may happen on a lazy day when no urgency

forces me up and moving away from comforts.

 

 

February 22nd 2017

I slip from path to path,

never lingering too long

as I sing loudly and laugh

at the words of the song

which falls from my mouth.

There are the sad people

who trudge wearily South

and look for a gold steeple

that signals a better life

free from all hardships,

but all that waits is strife.

So song falls from my lips

as I try to turn them back

but my warnings fall flat

and I cannot change tack,

so I stopped dancing and sat

while I kept on singing

and the people passed by

with no chance of winning.

It is not in my nature to lie

though they heard no truth.

I watched them for a while,

it niggles like a bad tooth,

the line went back a mile

I have up and left to walk

upon another path that led

to people who did not balk

to hear the truth being said.

 

 

February 23rd 2017 

I would love you through any weather.

Kiss you as a storm raged around us.

Are you trembling from the press of

my lips against yours or is it a reaction

to the icy rain dripping from your

hair and slipping down, droplet by

droplet, across your slender neck?

We would be soaked but smiling

as the heavy, raging thunder is

nothing compared to the pounding

of my heart when you grab the

edges of my raincoat and together

we go running through the rain.

 

 

February 24th 2017

Beyond.

Beyond the repeating roofs

and underneath the blue and pink

canopy of the endless sky

sits a strip of cloud,

low and full of hillocks and

colour that makes it seem

much more than the collated

water vapour that it is.

Like a distant, unreachable land

destined to be never conquered

and probably full of unimaginable

creatures and stories which

Will never be told to us

Earthbound creatures who

may only catch a glimpse

of another world in the

early morning, just after dawn.

 

 

February 25th 2017

I have been thinking of you lately

and spoken of you once, or twice.

I do not speak of you often, though

I hope that you know why I

keep silent on the subject but

I feel so much when the words

fly free and they land on the

ears of another person, becoming

locked in a new gilded cage.

 

 

February 26th 2017

All washed in silver

She, the silent guardian,

Works beside shadows.

 

 

February 27th 2017

The opening line is important.

I waver and wait for my Tolkien moment:

In a hole, in the ground, there lived a hobbit…

but inspiration is a tricky thing,

it hides and weaves and pounces.

It takes hard work to make it right

and a dash of luck as well, but if you

avoid eye contact and go on your way

Inspiration may decide to play and

you could be struck with a winning line

that may be the key to your journey.

 

 

February 28th 2017

Waiting, for the moment,

that will ripple and curl

until it folds back and

crosses over. A pattern

worth waiting for emerges

like a fractional picture

in the fire-smoke, lit by

the smouldering embers

which glow with gentle

destruction beneath gloved hands.

Careful, strict lines are

folded by quick, clever hands

and passed between us

is the paper crane

of your creation designed

to hang above our bowed

heads as we wait and

occupy our idle hands

but our minds are blank.

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