Poetry

Flower Power

I’m looking at a patch of bluebells,

and all I can think is

how much I want to hear them ring.

I imagine they have a soft tinkle,

rather than a bright peal.

No commanding tones here.

Just laughter. Gentle, shy.

The daffodils next to them,

hanging around far

longer than they should have,

have nothing delicate about them at all.

Each one crows at the drooping bluebells,

and blasts out like a trumpet instead.

Jazzy combinations of mockery.

Not just at the bluebells,

but at me,

for daring to think I can hear them.

 

Poetry

To speak aloud

‘Who will slay this troublesome claw?’

I ask Night’s cloaked face.

Night snorts out a star, and says,

‘Claw? What claw?

I see only

a man digging the pit

in which he will die from his efforts.’

‘Do you mock me, Night?’ I say.

‘No, I do not mock you. I pity

you, for thinking that I do.’

And then Night turns its collar up,

strolling off into the Way.

Poetry

An afternoon on the move

Rolling hills tumble;

the train passes them before a breath can be taken.

No chugging along,

full

speed

ahead!

 

Gazes dip as it reaches the bridge.

The earth falls away.

 

We are floating. Momentarily.

 

Swift as a swift,

the ground stacks itself again.

Exhales are heard –

the hills give a thundering chuckle.