Category Archives: Verse
Picture It & Write: On The Water
God I want her Reading in fresh abandon Black stockings nearly touching the water Draped comfortably in the breeze Ah…if I was a vampire I would have an excuse To go up to her And plead my case And lest
Picture It & Write: On The Water
God I want her Reading in fresh abandon Black stockings nearly touching the water Draped comfortably in the breeze Ah…if I was a vampire I would have an excuse To go up to her And plead my case And lest
Half The World Away ~ Where My Words Start To Grow
She carries my words In her hands Sewing seeds in a foreign land Nimble fingers Much quicker than mine with pen in hand And she’s the one who planted words in my mind She’s a craftswoman, up since the dawn
Half The World Away ~ Where My Words Start To Grow
She carries my words In her hands Sewing seeds in a foreign land Nimble fingers Much quicker than mine with pen in hand And she’s the one who planted words in my mind She’s a craftswoman, up since the dawn
Angola
This melody, by a firm favourite of mine, travelling troubador Benard Lavilliers, resonates well with my words, that have been on my mind for a while and jotted down below. Angola No-one ever goes Don’t know why – never snows
Remembering An Explosion
A cloud of poison Didn’t hide the sun Insivible to us But not our organs Twenty seven years ago today The cloud came our way They called it a nuclear disaster When an explosion rocked the reactor And these days
Remembering An Explosion
A cloud of poison Didn’t hide the sun Insivible to us But not our organs Twenty seven years ago today The cloud came our way They called it a nuclear disaster When an explosion rocked the reactor And these days
Magpie Tales ~ View Through A Winter Window
I kiss her fingertips as she sits hair and breasts undone her belly warm to rays of sun her neck, back, shiver to my lips, though still she drinks in the verse, her book open in front of her while
Magpie Tales ~ View Through A Winter Window
I kiss her fingertips as she sits hair and breasts undone her belly warm to rays of sun her neck, back, shiver to my lips, though still she drinks in the verse, her book open in front of her while
Why Did You Turn The Cherry Trees Into Monasteries?
Why did you turn the cherry trees into monasteries? There’s no blossoms for her hair now No shade to watch the grass grow No branch for the snow No snowflake blossoms floating in the breeze No more carpet of fallen
Why Did You Turn The Cherry Trees Into Monasteries?
Why did you turn the cherry trees into monasteries? There’s no blossoms for her hair now No shade to watch the grass grow No branch for the snow No snowflake blossoms floating in the breeze No more carpet of fallen
Like a Red Flag to the Bull
Wounded, but coming back for more There’s no exit door…… The crowds look on and roar It’ll all end up in blood, guts and glore He’s anaesthetised, desensitised He doesn’t seem to realise Love cannot be franchised Like meat, to
Like a Red Flag to the Bull
Wounded, but coming back for more There’s no exit door…… The crowds look on and roar It’ll all end up in blood, guts and glore He’s anaesthetised, desensitised He doesn’t seem to realise Love cannot be franchised Like meat, to
Yakutia ~ Somewhere in Siberia
The Yakut winter wind polishes its gleaming nature The river shines, hard in a multitude of mirrors While the soft snow settles, caressing the landscape Shamans, in yurts, teepees, chant their song Resounding rhythm flowing, to the drum Echoes tapped across
Yakutia ~ Somewhere in Siberia
The Yakut winter wind polishes its gleaming nature The river shines, hard in a multitude of mirrors While the soft snow settles, caressing the landscape Shamans, in yurts, teepees, chant their song Resounding rhythm flowing, to the drum Echoes tapped across
An Endless Migration In Us…The Fourth Qasida
Taha Muhammad Ali (1931-2011) wrote most of the poems for his first book in 1982 and 1983, when the Israel Defense Forces were invading Lebanon, leading to the massacres at Sabra and Shatila. But it was in 1948, in Muhammad
An Endless Migration In Us…The Fourth Qasida
Taha Muhammad Ali (1931-2011) wrote most of the poems for his first book in 1982 and 1983, when the Israel Defense Forces were invading Lebanon, leading to the massacres at Sabra and Shatila. But it was in 1948, in Muhammad
A Stream Of Consciousness: View From The Himalayas
Hey there how are you doing Mr Banker? Where you going on your holiday? How about a little trip to the Himalayas? Get the latest gear and kit up for the Everest Then get into your helicopter And take a
A Stream Of Consciousness: View From The Himalayas
Hey there how are you doing Mr Banker? Where you going on your holiday? How about a little trip to the Himalayas? Get the latest gear and kit up for the Everest Then get into your helicopter And take a
A Sip, not a Kiss
I had two pictures, long left over in my image file, and decided I would use them to pull, tug and lever my emotions and instincts out… Sip, at your leisure but do not succumb, and touch the sugar. Do
A Sip, not a Kiss
I had two pictures, long left over in my image file, and decided I would use them to pull, tug and lever my emotions and instincts out… Sip, at your leisure but do not succumb, and touch the sugar. Do
Daily Prompt: Connect the Dots
Open your nearest book to page 82. Take the third full sentence on the page, and work it into a post somehow. The book – Blood & Sand by Frank Gardner. The sentence: It was an incongruous sight in the
Daily Prompt: Connect the Dots
Open your nearest book to page 82. Take the third full sentence on the page, and work it into a post somehow. The book – Blood & Sand by Frank Gardner. The sentence: It was an incongruous sight in the
I Am Not Alone!
~~~~~”I am not alone,” he said aloud~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~To himself, stepping on the velvet sand~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~”I am not alone,” he growled, the sea~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Of silver shimmering into the beach~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~”I am not alone” he whispered as the seashells sighed~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Drawn back
I Am Not Alone!
~~~~~”I am not alone,” he said aloud~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~To himself, stepping on the velvet sand~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~”I am not alone,” he growled, the sea~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Of silver shimmering into the beach~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~”I am not alone” he whispered as the seashells sighed~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Drawn back
She’s A Blogger
Meadows of flowers Mean something to me Ever since I saw her There is a need to set her free I wrote about her festival Which seemed to feature only nude men So imagine my surprise When I realised What
She’s A Blogger
Meadows of flowers Mean something to me Ever since I saw her There is a need to set her free I wrote about her festival Which seemed to feature only nude men So imagine my surprise When I realised What
Let It Rain
The soft rain reminds me of a home again somewhere to watch drops roll on a window pane where skies are grey and waves caress sand; in background refrain “` I walk the forest bathed in the shine of light
Let It Rain
The soft rain reminds me of a home again somewhere to watch drops roll on a window pane where skies are grey and waves caress sand; in background refrain “` I walk the forest bathed in the shine of light
Where Is She Now?
Where is she now? The girl whose picture I found? Posing just after the last snow Fresh, in her Yakutian meadow ~*~ What were her dreams, back then? Among the flowers that only bloom in Spring? When she posed so
Where Is She Now?
Where is she now? The girl whose picture I found? Posing just after the last snow Fresh, in her Yakutian meadow ~*~ What were her dreams, back then? Among the flowers that only bloom in Spring? When she posed so
~The Wise Barman, The Innocent Dame & Me ~
Of course we all write from our personal experience, though one does like to touch the scene of the memory here and there, to get just right. My memory of an encounter with a woman in Bahrain, after having worked
~The Wise Barman, The Innocent Dame & Me ~
Of course we all write from our personal experience, though one does like to touch the scene of the memory here and there, to get just right. My memory of an encounter with a woman in Bahrain, after having worked
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