Saturday, April 30, 2011

Some things

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.

Thursday, April 28, 2011

April Poem Seventeen

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

April Poem 16

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

April Poem 15

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

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

April Poem 14

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."

Monday, April 25, 2011

April Poem 13

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

Saturday, April 23, 2011

April Poem 12

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.

Friday, April 22, 2011

April Poem 11

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.

Thursday, April 21, 2011

April Poem 10

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

Saturday, April 16, 2011

April Poem 9

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

April Poem 8

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.

Saturday, April 09, 2011

April - poem 7

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

Thursday, April 07, 2011

April Poem 6

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

Wednesday, April 06, 2011

April - Poem 5

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.

Monday, April 04, 2011

April. Poem. 4.

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.

Sunday, April 03, 2011

April Poem - 3

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'.

Saturday, April 02, 2011

April - Poem 2

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.

Friday, April 01, 2011

April Poem - 1

This is why I'll try to put up a poem every day in the month of April:

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