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.

Poem for Nan - WIP

I've built you a heaven from my memories.
Your malaprop'd "monocle"
is set on the grand oak table
(more fitted for a stately home
than a bungalow kitchen).
You'll need that,
for scouring the clues in the newspaper.
Yesterday's mystery of 7 across,
is finally revealed in the small print, inverted.

Set down on the table,
it makes ellipses of the grain
around its chrome casing,
and a study of it under its lens.
The refracted light from the kitchen-diner chandelier
is re-focussed in overlapping circles on the grain,
as it always was.

I've picked you a silk nightdress,
a fleece dressing gown,
and slippers that match neither.
The dressing gown fleece is soft against my cheek
and your arms feel like home.

Above the tiny telly
a picture smiles down.
A young woman in uniform,
sepia, with strange hair
and an air about her.
"Yes, that was me."
You'd smile and sigh.

I don't know if she'd like it here,
that quick, clever girl who could
fix an anti aircraft gun.

I can't see her doing a crossword,
or indulging a child too many sweets
while singing to Songs of Praise.
"The Old Rugged Cross" was your favourite.
She crushed on Tony Martin, and went to the cinema
with soldiers who weren't my Grandad.

Now free from your body,
soft and gentled by necessity;
are you the laughing eyed girl?
Is that your heaven?

Ranunculus WIP so bloody tired ...

Edit: OMG, like... I am a 16 year old girl.  Jesus.  What the hell was I thinking?! This belongs in a whiny supernatural roleplay book from the mid '90s.   And that's probably why I'm keeping it up, because god help me, I LOVE that cheesy stuff.
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Homunculus: "little man"
The dark magician brings forth the homunculus to hold a part of himself... his greed, anger, or some lighter part like his sense of humour. 

Ranunculus: "little light of the sun"
The lover is inspired by their muse to bring out the best in themselves.  Its form is fragile, and outside of the protection of the mind, its fate is most often to be crushed - more often by clumsiness than malice.
Upon the destruction of their Ranunculus, the lover feels bereft, as the best part of them truly has been destroyed.  But with time and nourishment, the fertile heart soil grows another.  The lover is wise to be cautious before allowing a muse song to draw out their Ranunculus for a second, third or even fourth time.  The memory of pain is a wise teacher.  But the lover is also wise to not wall their Ranunculus up so that no song will ever reach it again, lest it wither on the vine and poison the heart soil with its decay.