The price of treasure

The gold of Autumn,
Unlike the gold green of Spring.
Warning, not promise.

Velodrome cycling

Vertical circ'ling,
fluorescent murmuration.
Waves rolling in sound.

Delighted to inform...

I don't write heartfelt poems anymore.

Such writings are inextricably linked with deep pain,
(partly mine,
partly the reader's)
and I'm rather more cheerful these days.

Dunno where this is going

I remember looking desperately into my future for a glimmer of hope and seeing none.  I remember listening in the dark for the voice of my future self telling me I'd make it - I'd heard it before in my darker times.  It didn't come.  All I heard was a stranger's voice telling me how sorry it was for my pain.

Three years later, I know that the stranger's voice is mine and that the woman who was me for a while died, just like she knew she would.  I stare out of her eyes, push her hair back out of her face and listen for the voice of my future self.  I don't hear it, but everything's fine now, anyway.

Memories of childhood

The garden we grew in
grows brighter with age
Perhaps we return there.

An artist's lament

My favourite flowers are roses
and I... wish that they weren't.
Couldn't I just die for a passionate two-lip,
or bliss out on a bohemian sunflower?

No.  Like a million before me,
I breathe the scent of contentment
from pedestrian petals of perfection,
rich in colour, complex in shape
and protected by thorns;
the inspiration of a million poets -
what more could *I* have to say about them?

There's nothing to do, but keep on deadheading...
and quietly curse my conservative taste.

Precious things

I'd like to write reams, but it comes down to this: art needs a frame.  Treasure needs a chest.  Precious things need to be cherished, or they become nothing but trash.

Have you ever seen a single shoe in a pile of junk?  Not a ratty-looking flip flip or broken-nacked slipper, either.  The suede was as soft as the day it was made, and a ruffle of gossamer thin paper was still tucked in the dainty toe.  It was the only thing in the room that seemed to repel the stench of rotten food and cat pee, still having that leatherish smell of a long-lost shoe box.  It should have been a precious thing, but without its partner, discarded and unloved?  It's just beautiful junk.

I slung it in the bin bag with sodden tissues, food wrappers and broken, useless things.  It still looked beautiful.