52nd Street With Perfect Vision

The Healing Process.

Great black tumbling storm,

Pauses, coughs and gently,

Slowly, with purpose....

Backs out of the sky,

Western horizon.

Rain lightens, a sun-beam,
Rain stops, trees dripping.

The ducks shake their coats,

And appear on this glass stage,

To dance again, bends, and circles,

An audience before the pure,

Emerging tendrils of tree feelings,

Root, branch and leaf unfurling.

Clouds part at last,

The big reveal,

Infinite blue.

Boundless heart lands and surveys all,

Pauses, coughs and gets on with

                                                        The healing process.

Belief

No words of darkness,

Rain and storm winters,

Closed stove doors and cosy night,

Faith that better days,

Breaking clouds.....

New tide of hopes,

Shoots, breaking soil with promises,

Buds glistening in howling gales....

No towering fells of despair,

Sheltered valleys of loving,

Wild streams carrying fear away,

Returning geese, a hundred or more,

A secret smile, a tight hug,

Remembered dreams, hopes, laughter,

Inner strength, re-lit fires,

Friendship, loves, dawn of new self-belief.

 

Chainsaw Bits

I get bits in my eyes

Chainsaw, strimmer cutting brush,

Blower, mower, tri-star....

Hours and more eye-rubbing,

Haven't found a cure, but sleep

Seems to help, tears and grit.

I get bits in my soul,

Poems, songs, scents, photos,

Spoken thought, candid, human....

Hours, eye-watering, head-heating,

Self-questioning, fault finding,

Haven't found a cure, not sleep...

No help, just grit and

No safety-glasses.

Just dancing stupidly with

Prose tinted longing and

Brush-cutting regrets, bits.

 

Exsanguination

There are far too many times,

When calling it a day, and going to bed,

Feels like “defeat”, giving up,

And, so sad, so welcome, sleep fights,

A sorry battle, to a sorry morning,

                                                      And a hamster wheel.

Despair

It's a strange old not-friend,

You remember from school or,

College or whatever, but fiction,

It is real, an internal real,

You know it's there, you dance,

You circle, with a hedge-trimmer,

Internally, or at least secateurs,

Keeping the hawthorn or hollies at bay,

Dance, circling the place you can't avoid.

Just don't give-up,

It was just meant to test,

To change, to challenge,

But we've got this, really,

The foggy December morning,

Carries hope, and a promise,

Happy tomorrows,

It's a test.

A strengthening.

 

Cliche Trap

Don't dilute your written dreams with

Obvious cliches,

(CLICHES!)

Black dogs, man waving,

Cliff edges

Scents of someone else's imaginings....

Trees falling in the eternal forest!

Lost souls.....

Finding solace in darkly inspired penning,

Hard to create when happy?

Snappy, crappy, wappy, gappy....

Uninspired.

Juvenile. Novice.

Crush these papers, sniff, ignite, laugh,

Fill with songs from your Happy Heart....

Fool!

 

Just Notes

You realise its downhill

When you have to take your glasses off

When drinking tea.....


==============

Search for human noise

Then ten years of searching for silence

Sounds like a stupid plan.


==============

Pattern, full-on, slow boredom

New, love, laughter, love,

Boredom

Silence,

Death.

==============

Goodbye 2019. Would like to say it was a blast, but hey, you and I know that you could have been less grumpier........

Hope both of my current readers had a brilliant one, and that 2020 brings you both a hat full of awesomeness.

x