Chiffonesque

A dream pickled and cured in silky time. Rolled in a wrap of stories and served cold. A tasty bite of sushi. All the seas and oceans evaporated. They condensed into a tiny, latticed crystal of salt. The salt then lay as a speck of beauty and madness on the fold of a thick, purple napkin. A teacup in white china with a spring pattern. Scattered cheery motifs of daffodils, sunflowers, berries, poodles, kittens, parrots, oranges, balls of yarn. Each motif with a vein of eye-popping colour. Each motif small, the size of a nail. Itricate and complete. The teacup has smooth, creamy milk, later sweetened with sunshine from a country garden. Burgandy lace sheath for a postcard made of bamboo. On it, a shoemaker's address. Hot chocolate with cinnamon spinkled on the foam. Like freckles on air. Stepped into the Lladro showroom yesterday. Like a few pieces. Cannot afford them yet. So, wrote about them to remember them by.

A strange kind of proselytizing Is happening everywhere you look, You turn around and there someone is Sincerely recommending a book.

It happens when you hear a travelers' tales Of all her journeys and whatever she remembers They come shaped out of a huge gypsy flame And dance about like Macro Polo embers

Wonder what kinds of storms Howled through cold, lengthy nights The echoes of which still bellow through Passages of Wuthering Heights

The jaded heart didn't expect to hear, You say it after all this while, When I scowled and asked, "Why did you come?" "I came back for that smile."

I wandered lonely as a cloud And then it rained on me And just because I'd read Wordsworth I smiled at the serendipity

I sit by the sea and try to write But all I can do is stare At the girl with a shining pearl And cappuccino hair Her head is down And she has a frown That's like a crease in the sky Her face is smooth And pure and nice Like a conman's perfect lie She gets up and goes Almost floats away Glides and soars as if a bird in flight I sit still and long after she has gone, I sit by the sea and write.

I think of chiselling an ice-cube And colouring it grape-green Think of engraving a little picture on there Somewhat like a picnic scene In memory of a friend I shared The dawn of fading innocence with When love and friendship were clear and dear Not beguiling fuzz like today's urban myth I think of leaving that ice-cube outside In memory of my friend who, quietly, passed away I think of recording what we share still,despite her death, And only a melting ice-cube would know what to say.

Lying down, looking up, and the sky looked lovely Already blue and sunny, so early at seven Strewn with clouds and poked by treetops and flower tips Like a rucksack that got emptied out in heaven

It is prickly anticipation alright When the sky is blue and the sun shines bright But you can taste the sugar of a caramel sky And you can count the twinkling pinpricks of light

It is possible for the heart to, over time, Put up a wall - and put it up nice and slow. And this wall might never come down again. But maybe, over time, it could get a window.

An uncertain day ended And not a moment too soon With a deep blue custard sky And the smile of a Mona Lisa moon

Broken clouds floated around like bread squares In a soft, melting fondue sky Garnished with paprika ‘hellos’ and oregano ‘what-ifs’ And a good splash of the classic ‘why’ The sun steadily kept the sky melted But set later, finishing off those unfulfilled wishes Heartening, really, because even with whatever doesn’t come one’s way One could still get one of the world’s tastiest dishes

Promise wandered all around Like a wastrel in a foreign land Homeless, cold and oh-so-hungry, She went plodding across white, hot sand. People looked at her with awe and envy She was a vision, sure, with eyes dark and deep And although it was tempting to take her, They knew Promise to be hard to keep. In her final days, Promise lay clouded With peace and wisdom, hard-earned and unspoken They were better - those who'd abandoned her Than the ones who'd taken her in and left her broken.

He looked forlorn, exiled from his land of saffron skies and diamond lakes- a land sculpted with his whimsical mind and crazy heart and soul-searing mistakes. He wondered how he'd build this world anew with braided waterfalls and laughter rain How can you build a life when you're cursed with knowing You'll never ever be a fool again.

The summer breeze carried with it, It seems from a mystery bowl far away, Little notes of power and hope, And packets of stories for the day. The summer breeze played about, With tiny blooms of flowers It waltzed with leaves and dust And sashayed everywhere for hours. So caught up were we in our collective aim Of being part of gilded history We didn't listen to the summer breeze As it foretold our Hugo-type of victory. It seems to us quite a remarkable win, A solid tangle of grit and thump, Though the breeze knew we'd go the Victor Hugo way: "You can't stop an idea whose time has come." P.S. - We won the World Cup. Capital 'W'. Capital 'C'.

It's said with certainty and all the time And then it's said once again That struggle is good for the soul And so is that weepy, wailing pain Both, apparently, quell fear and doubt And stop their incessant chatter Although I hope someone would ask me first I'd like to have some choice in the matter So what if the pain won't really kill you? So what if it makes you stronger? I want to live like a quivering hedonist And I want to be happier for longer.

This is why I'll try to put up a poem every day in the month of April: http://caferati.blogspot.com/search/label/CaPoWriMo#4726127121356507247 She was a child And didn't know what a rhododendron meant Her maid stewed some in a carafe for style, maybe Though roses would've given off a stronger scent She was old when she'd keep up pretences With the maid dead, money gone and she, all alone She was a queen when she slept off at night, with the carafe in sight On a slightly damp, rhododendron throne