there was something in the air that day

a light scent with a hint of a smile

a soft twirling pastel

framed in the swirl of taffeta

fanned out in sunshine’s soft light wheat coloured hair

sunshine dreadlocks

smiling in a breezeless

carousel of swings and ferris wheels

purple painted feathers

dangling from the clip of a forgotten roach

somehow managing to avoid the carny leer the masked clown

of the ball toss

choosing instead the soft sweet taste of cotton candy.

you build your home
in the heart
of concrete and brick
mortar and glass
slick towers of deception
your song breaks the monotony
cacophony
rat a pat click of a well turned heel
a mask of make-up
protection from the smog
chewed up nest
of yellow #2 pencils
memos shredded into tiny eggs
you sing loudly
to be heard over the hum
of the machinery
that turns the city away from life
but she notices
you can tell in the upturned lip
of a smile
and a soft look upwards
grazing the sky with a song.

“In a gentle way, you can shake the world.” (mahatma gandhi)

“The more ugly, older, more cantankerous, more ill and poorer I become, the more I try to make amends by making my colors more vibrant, more balanced and beaming.” (vincent van gogh)

always a contradiction
gentle strength resides
vibrant colour bounces
soft beauty guides
across passion’s vivid stroke
soft words give guidance
teetering on the edge of a bar stool
filled with laughter of soft breezes
on a park bench
she smiles gently
laughs loudly
orates in cycles of lucid fury
relaxes into listening to a heart
gently beating thought
and their lips meet
two lips
embraced in passion’s dance
singing a gentle song of love.

“Elegance is not the prerogative of those who have just escaped from adolescence, but of those who have already taken possession of their future.” (coco chanel)

she moved with timeless grace
colour streaming from eyes
formed
lips
soft sighs
her life filled with the stories
remembered and forgotten
harsh words scrapped across a bruised knuckles
as she slipped on love
again.
she moved with timeless grace
colour dancing in waves
across her shoulders
holding her
dreams
in small fluttering hands
of whispering thoughts
long since lost
in his lime green eyes
quenched with
bright furious passionfruit.
timeless grace moved her
sunbeams strewn across pale arms
freckled clouds
parted her hair
streaming rivers movement
and for a moment
she was there
and nothing else mattered.

The theme for this week’s travelling poetry roadshow is uncorked. thanks to jilly poet for hosting this week : )

“uncorked”
quiet
thoughts
gentle
sway of a grey seed
rumble grumble dancing star
a sparked thought flitting around edges
of a bumblebee kiss
hiding behind smiling eyes and a placid face
unnoticed, sparkle hidden behind a plastic composition
carved in stone marked for the world
and then, a dancing gleam
formed from a dream
a lip curves
a giggle bubbles out
passion streams and words spills across the air
light bursts upwards
fire bursts outwards
stone cracks open
beauty is set free on fluttering wings
spiraling upwards
reaching
a cobalt blue tangerine dipped dream

I collect sunlight captured in the the shadow of a box, printed on a piece of paper, shared across a screen. I collect syllables dripping off my tongue, dangled in a run on sentence pretending to be poetry. I collect scrapes of paint and dabbles of smudged ink, a pen exploded on a chewed up thought. I collect thoughts and ideas, bits of beads and thread entwined on the end of broken needle. I collect memories bound up in a ribbon of silk, stirred up in a pot of fragrant soup. I collect emotions spilled open wide across a field sprinked with daisies and a dash of golden grass. I collect experiences filled out in paperwork as a rush of adrenalin dances over waves. I collect sunlight captured in the shadow of a box, printed on a piece of paper, shared across a screen.

toes dangled in water’s dream you whispered a future i could only imagine dragon’s fly fairy wing sings beauty in my breathe a fiery tale of passion a river flowing with tears soft clouds of love atop a brightly coloured bud

i conquer mountains of fear i dance among flower’s jewel i sing wind’s song of longing i create a garden of dreams

and dangle my toe in water’s dream.

one plus one equals one
and sometimes equals three
there is the exceptional rule of twos
but I cannot find the fourth
in your smile
the squared line of yesterday
In time’s bended ray of light
printed on a glossy surface
and I am lost in the symbol
of another brain’s finite thought
while contemplating
the continued sum of our linear regression
and the angle of the sun
shines a shadow
across a warmed mix
of our thoughts

Poetry Thursday prompt this week is ‘why i love poetry’ in 153 words or less.

there is something about the stacatto beat
the longing wistful refrain
the dance across water’s spray
powerful thundering
of heart’s dream

but if i am absolutely honest
my love of poetry comes from the hidden nature
the message in a bottle
that softens the blow
the message for me that varies
like a horoscope tarot reading personalized
for you

i have been writing poetry for as long as i have been writing. i have pretty cloth covered journals, velvet strokes and leather bound, red and black, blue and green stacked upon each other holding my secrets close to their pages. some girls kept little diaries locked with a key but i kept journals locked with words that only i could interpret.

i once made a mistake of writing something out in the plain honest language of a 10 year old girl, scrawled in round hand, my insecurites and loves on a scrap of loose paper which found its way on air to a corner of the washroom in my house. as chance would have it, a friend was sleeping over and she stumbled across this paper and read my earnest words too clumsy and naive, words that should have been mine only and she shared these words of mine, red faced and burning ears to the class at school. my private thoughts displayed for all to ridicule. poetry allowed me to record my memories, a trip of words released, a release of abstract truth that took me back to the plain language of my head but hid the truth behind the metaphorical language of beauty’s lie.

When I read poetry it speaks to me deep within, its emotion washes over me and I see my own truths. When I write poetry, I dip my emotion in a coloured brush and paint my words across the page and I let go of myself while holding a piece back just for me.

Why others lovepoetry …