Looking Backwards...

  Not a sensible thing to do, if one is trying to move forwards! But as clocks never need to contemplate such an action, it seems only fitting for me to ponder upon the subject on their behalf, as my bedtime approaches...

The UK has always had a reputation for 'dodgy' weather (more wet than dry) but now, thanks to global warming, unpredictable ocean currents and rapidly melting ice caps, we are often at the mercy of unseasonable heat. Up to 30°C temperatures forecast in May or June, was something that never happened when I was a youngster; I hear those words echo in my skull, and my brain interrupts, askance.

"What? Am I old now? Surely not?"

But when I see the white haired octogenarian I never imagined being, peering at me from a mirror, I have to admit the truth, and grin and bear it! 

Thoughts from a bookworm in a library...

 Oh library, great library
you make my heart beat faster;
you're full of words of wisdom
spread out for me to master.
With my precious ticket
waving in the air,
I can own a little bit
of every book in there...
My eyes eat words for breakfast,
chomp knowledge into chunks
of easy, bite sized pieces
when its time for lunch.
A volume here, a volume there
will fill my tum for tea
with recipes, or pictures,
as I gobble what I see
in my imagination...
and all of it is free! 

So I'm a happy bookworm.

Leave me to browse in peace

among this paper paradise! 

May its glory never cease.

Wise Old Bird Sees Red?

When you can't see the wood for the trees,

and life grinds you down to your knees,

STOP!

Have a think... and then in a blink

say "Bother!" and do as you please!

N.B. Instead of "Bother!", insert any two syllable expletive of your choice. Depending on mood at the time, this may be the ruder the better?

Jinksy exits left, giggling...

Thanks to Carrie, from whose picture-prompt I took this detail:-)

Duet

It
does not
matter, love,
how long it takes you
to remember not to forget me;
every recollection will resonate
with my heart strings,
replay songs
we both
sang.

Micro Poetry is the order of the day over at The Imaginary Garden With Real Toads  Follow this link to read all about it - then why not join in?!

Exploring

No, I've not been absent from Blogland because I've been exploring in far away lands! But this morning, I have been exploring to see how Blogger and Google have attempted to help  (or hinder?) each other, in the matter of creating New Posts on my various blogs.
A whole heap of 'Post Setting Options' on a drop down list, have proved most entertaining...I've discovered I have a 'Pocket'... Not sure yet where exactly it lives, nor what it might hold.

Any pockets about my person,in real life, may not always stand a close scrutiny, though you can be sure one of them will contain a handkerchief - in a relatively clean state, may I add.  The phrase 'Do you have a clean hanky?' is one that all good parents have issued as one of their offspring steps out of the house - at least, it was back in the days when I was small fry.

Nowadays, paper tissues have replaced many a cotton hanky, and they don't fare as well in a pocket, especially after any garment whose pocket harbours a stray one, has been in a washing machine! I've spent many a happy hour removing little balls of disintegrated tissue from any dark clothing which had been washed with a pocketed tissue in situ..

But such pondering is not what Alias Jinksy blog was made for, thus I will include a poetic offering as well. :-)

Hot Fingers

Mister Sun creeps in here, mid afternoon.
At first, he is timid and merely peeps
around the curtain, stretching hot fingers
a little further each day, flexing them
experimentally.
                    Now, mid April,
beams from those fingertips reach the far wall.
As I sit here and type, I soon notice
them announcing their presence on my skin,
mapping their journey.
            Even through my clothes,
they make sure I can’t ignore them. They are
self-satisfied, once they see I must move,
for it proves their hold is growing stronger…

N.B. I've just linked this (a bit late) to Poetry Pantry

Crafty Spider?

A thread twines around
dancing hook and fingertips.
Human spider spins…

Inhalation

Last breath of summer
expands autumn's golden lungs; 
winter can whistle.



  
Written for my adaptation of the Jackson Pollock chosen by Tess today, for her Mag 290

The Pact

Among the clouds an angel flies

in swift retreat from stormy skies.

The heaven’s sun-gold glow of light

spreads its path; to our delight

this promises that, after rain,

its beams will bless the land again.

So it has been since time began,

this pact between both god and man 

and natural law’s perfected plan.

With thanks to the prompt this week from Tess at MagpieTales.  I took a tiny snippet from the photo, then kept this down to a mere 55 words, in memory of G-Man.

It's all about the viewpoint...

That's true of many different scenarios, as I'm sure you'd agree. But this time, I'm using it somewhat literally.
There is a small group of writers who meet at my house once a month, to share their latest works and to give each other ideas to spark the imagination. For the July meeting, each person picked a card from a Tarot pack, and this was mine:-

Sorry for the wonky photo I took, but my scanner was temporarily out of commission! But as soon as I saw the illustration, my attention was focussed on the little camel - not, as you might have imagined, the mysterious Blue Lady Behind The Veil!

No matter how often I looked at the card,  the camel took center stage each time.

Camels

The Dromedary has one hump,
the Baktrian has two.
Sometimes a human ‘gets the hump’
but surely, that’s not true
of you nor I, I fondly hope ?
Our brains can think of cunning ways
to help us both to cope
with minor disappointments
as we travel on life’s path –
for we can seek the funny side
and simply have a laugh!

Telephonic Tall Tales?

And all at the tail end of this week, after belatedly seeing the Magpie prompt picture which made me hunt out and edit, yet again, a poem which started life many years ago.
It's had several incarnations, but seems to get reborn in a slightly different guise each time, but at appropriate moments, of which I feel this is one...The Wimbledon season is fast approaching...

Love Match?

We serve and volley our thoughts
like the tennis players at Wimbledon,
bouncing them from mind to mind
across the net of distance
stretched taught between us.

I sometimes feel you are waiting
to demolish me with an ace to end all aces...

And the score board will declare
"Game set and match to the telephone."

The Cavern Of My Thoughts

That was the title of IGWRT's post on Wednesday, which showed a black and white image taken from another site, which you can visit HERE.  As I always think in colour, I hope nobody will object to my having a little play with the image, to produce the following:-

Mind Cavern

Memory is a world inside my head.
Bypassing time, it weaves new connections
to link places, people, emotions,
with sights, sounds and aromas,
until a sensory bouquet is created
in the way florists gather blooms into posies.

Colours and textures meld in each arrangement
and I save thought-snapshots of them in an album
through which I may wander at will.
Any time I choose, its images,
replaying on the Big Screen of my mind,
are only an eyelid's blink away...

Left Leg, Matterhorn Pose

Some streets sport water features
and some continue bare,
except for straggly grass, or weeds
that flourish unaware.
But here a paradox we see
for what looks like a fountain
is nothing but a metal plinth
for an Old Man of The Mountain
sporting naked chest and cap!
I dare you, gentlefolks, top that!

A bit of nonsense for Tess at The Mag,who provided us with the illustration today, and for which I've written a ditty as a late offering for IGWRT's Flash 55, as well.

Two for the price of one has to be good?

Grasping at Shadows?

Late yesterday I noticed last Sunday's challenge on IGWRT's , and this afternoon was tempted to let my imagination play along. What came from my finger-tapping was as much a surprise to my keyboard, no doubt, as it may be to any readers who happen by. Hahaha!


Aurora grasps at shadows. One gets caught
inside her net of mind. She studies him.
"My!  What arresting features this one's got.
See them slide from scintillating to dim
while his face flickers as if in the shade
of sorrow." Suddenly, his spectre goes
sprawling, falling down into a wood-glade
in which a curling stream of water flows,
snaking-fast. Heavily he lands, and lies
unmoving on a boulder-bed of stone.
She can but watch him. Painfully, he dies.
The water's song achieves a diff’rent tone,
as sympathetic notes console The Dawn.
Without this Shadow Lord she'll live alone…

Whatever the Weather

Today had me tapping away at the keys, after listening to IGWRT's recording of  Mr Cumberbatch reading 'Ode to a Nightingale', by Keats.  I can't compete, of course, but did feel intrigued enough to attempt to follow the rhyme scheme. We've had plenty of the 'sun versus rain' weather over the past few weeks, hence my choice of subject. 

When I have a few hours to spare, I may attempt to write more stanzas!

Capricious forces conjure sun and rain
into eternal conflict. Dark lords and bright
wage their wars as moon-tides wax and wane
throughout the universe's star drenched night,
until, by morning, rotund Earth's revolved
in deference to laws decreed long since.
Then sun-flame beams put shadow-clouds to flight,
their unshed tears like morning mists dissolved
as Helios, our hero, on his plinth
stands proud, the great defender of the light.

A Reflection on Reflections?

Take stand behind a mirror which reflects
others to themselves, and discover that
honesty is a gift few will accept.
The shadow being of self delusion
knows well how to hide within an image.

Beguiled by a mirage of misted Truth,
the silvered glass mocks one’s own perception.

Words and image inspired by Tess at Mag 266
and now linked to IGWRT's, too.

Sshhh!

Hot gossip is best shared undercover
of darkness, when dreamers keep their counsel
and sleep draws veils over the memory;
whispered confidences fly to Lady Moon
whose silence never betrays one's trust.
Her wisdom?  Learned through countless centuries
she listens, she forgets and she forgives.



Written for Tess and The Mag 258

Lady Paragon

Action Figures by Edith Vonnegut

This housework makes me far too hot
and so I shed my clothes -
That's perfectly acceptable,
as long as no one knows...

But really, couldn't you have knocked
and not come bursting in?
You nearly frightened me to death-
though nudity's no sin...

Please!  Sir!  Don't blow my cover,
just quell your urge to shout.
Don't give my nosey neighbours
any more to talk about.

My blameless reputation
is at stake here, don't you see?
A scandal would be hard to bear
for a paragon like me!

Written for Tess and her Mag 257

Butterfly Kisses?

Butterfly dreams flit behind her eyelids,
as she savours memories of their lips
touching, kissing - soft as velvet wing-tips.


Written for Mag 255, with thanks to Tess.

No chore, this...

Washing Up

The kitchen sink holds extra charm
as she's encircled by his arm
and melodies unheard enhance
their poorly timed, impromptu dance.

The peeling paint or grime streaked wall -
they don't matter then at all,
for romance cloaks a mundane task
with magic. What more could one ask?

Inspired by Tess at The Mag 254

Goodbye

A soldier and his dainty lass
were sad to say goodbye
when he was forced to go to war;
they parted with a sigh.

"Take care! No matter where you roam
I'll pray for you each day"
and bravely holding back the tears,
she waved him on his way.

The soldier in his scarlet coat
marched off with noble tread,
while fearing that the girl might guess
what thoughts lay in his head.

"How will I live without my love?
And should I not survive
how will she fare all on her own
instead of as my bride?"


Inspiration gave out at this point, but I may add to it later! The adapted picture is of this week's Magpie which Tess gave us. Its original version is 'Bond of Union, 1956, by M. C. Escher', but I needed to play! 

Time Travel?

Play me Tchaikovsky’s  Romeo and Juliet  theme, on a violin, and I’m back in a London street on a snowy winter’s afternoon, transported by coach for a day out , but transported by the music to another time, to that day spent in the company of my first boyfriend. We held hands and shared magic…

Fireblossom, in the Imaginary Garden for Real Toads, set a challenge last Saturday...Here are my 55 words which capture a moment in time.

Afloat

Bold seafarers dream
as wind-waves dance together.
Moonlight adds magic.

Interpretation of original photo by R D Stainforth, for The Mag 233

Dream Time

Angel wings? Or Batman's cloak?
Which of these your muse invoke?
Will you escape the fires of hell
as Sunday's Magpie rings your bell
and sets your mind to lateral thinking
when you really have no inkling
as to where its lines may lead?
Will you write a full blown screed,
or will you do verbal gymnastics
and pen a poem? How fantastic!
I wish you joy - and come what may -
have fun with Tess this august day
of August as you scratch your head
and think 'I wish I'd stayed in bed!
This artwork is a Dream Time tale
but clever words seem set to fail
for who can catch a waking dream
when all is not quite as it seems?!'

Thanks to Tess and the image by Keith Haring at The Mag, from which I used a detail to create my accompanying effort. :-)

Reversed Reality

People's living ghosts
admire a gleaming image
of Nefertiti,
legendary immortal -
thanks to ancient history.

Uncanny image thanks to Tess and her Mag 230

Family Portrait

As a family portrait, the work left much to be desired.

But now he was full grown, the son seemed to hear his mother's playing every time he stood before the painting. 

He'd remember the time he'd been standing by her at the piano, the time when he'd noticed his father turn and walk away.

 Since then, nothing had ever been the same.


Written for the Mag 229, where Tess gave us an image of quite another persuasion...but which I translated into something else....
I hope you get the picture. :-)

Architectural Illusion

The painting was huge.
Once unveiled, the scale of it
could fool the senses
into believing they saw
a steel and concrete town-scape;
dark-glass reflections
creating strange images
of alien things
hovering just out of sight
behind a wire forest.

Written for Mag 228, with thanks to Tess and the un-named photographer.

P.S. Though it may look like random line breaks, I've actually used two of the Tanka, five line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count.

Shuffle & Deal

Thanks to Tess at Mag 226 with her prompt image by Meredith Frampton, entitled A Game of Patience, 1937

Dreaming?

Have you heard of Charlie Dimmock? She's the water feature Queen
of TV gardening programmes, which you've probably not seen,
but you'd recognise the gardens in which she's reigned supreme.

There's always lots of water gushing from a spout
or shooting up into the air, or winding in and out
along a crafty water course which gravity can't flout.

Charlie's tanned and winsome, with a head of wayward curls
which she allows to wander free - not like other girls
who tie their locks atop their heads, or wind them round in whorls.

But when she did my garden, there were no less than four
of the water-spitting lion heads - I couldn't ask for more -
as they played their water music in the pool outside my door!

(In all honesty, I can only dream of Ms Dimmock doing a makeover in my sad, slabbed patio - but what are Mags for, if not to dream?!)

Thanks to the artist John William Waterhouse  and Tess, from whose Mag 225 this detail was taken.

And if anyone would like to see how to earn a gold star, pop over here 

Headline News

Shadow beings lie within us, waiting
to make their presence felt; to bend the truth
till our conscious minds are set in turmoil
by unaccustomed promptings of temptation.
We feel the warmth of all their whispered goads
which hold us, teetering on wisdom's brink,
ready to misread a situation;
to falter in our stride and lose the way...

It's then we have to choose to take control,
to push our finer instincts to the fore -
ignoring what might be the easy choice -
and strive, however hard, to do what's right,
with no regret, no thought of recompense
except a well earned sense of justice done.

Oh, Tess! I've decided to re-post an edited version of the illustration and poem I did first time around. Full marks to anyone who spots the changes to Mag 224 and apologies to Rene Magritte...LOL

Rewind

Sometimes a  switch will flick and it sends
you into overdrive; I recognise the
warning signs of a mechanism which
has lost control, as needles oscillate
and register maximum overload.

Unplug wires; reverse polarity
until currents flow unhindered again,
and a temporary peace is achieved.

But still you'll wind me up and reel me in,
with no thought of my deflated spinning
mind, or damaged resolutions inside
my bruised components as the tape replays
an old story, instead of recording
a better history for the future.

Written for Tess and The Mag 223,  
and linked to IGWRT'S Open Link Monday

Artists come in many forms...

Image by courtesy of Hilary at The Smitten Image

            Light weaves tapestries
            to hang as a canopy
            above our bowed heads,
            as we honour the artist
            who created such beauty.

High Fliers

Has your chick fledged?

Teetered on the nest edge,
flapped wings, and flown
before he was full grown?

Perhaps he only fluttered to the ground,
down, down, down...
as you watched his fall,
wanting to call
'Take care!
Remember the air
may be friend, or foe
if you go
too close to the Sun,
Son,
and like Icarus, defy
the ruler of the sky.'

But though high fliers may rise
in search of some glittering prize,
we could never choose
to loose
our concern
that they won't burn...

Without  hatchlings, a nest
looks empty. Best
fill it with a new lining;
forget  pining,
for soon a new brood will come to visit.
Exquisite!

And it so happened, this fitted Wednesday's Toad prompt, too!

The Smile

The dog nudged his nose against the woman's arm, hoping she would feed him scraps from her plate, but she was far too excited at seeing who had come to sit opposite her, to notice this silent begging.
The lackluster day transformed into a Technicolor afternoon, forcing her to smile in recognition of the improvement.

 
Thanks to Tess and Edward Hopper for coming together in the Mag 220, from which this detail took flight. Come Friday, it will be linked to G-Man, too, as it happens to have exactly 55 words! What luck. :-)

Early Bird?

Photographer Unknown

Today, I spotted a Sepia Saturday post, ready for 17 May, and as its subject matter has always been close to my heart, here's my seaside poem, accompanied by a detail from a photo which appeared on Google Images , but without acknowledging the one who clicked the shutter. I thank them, whoever they were.

Sea Edge

In creeps the water,
tickling my toes,
swirling its whirlpools.
But nobody knows
where the sea comes from
or where it all goes.

Was it in China,
or distant Japan
that this pool of ocean’s
blue ripples began?
How many more miles
will they have to span?

How far have they travelled
and how many waves
crashed onto shorelines
or hid inside caves
before they arrived here,
so buoyant and brave?

On Stage

The Play’s The Thing

A sudden shutter clicks and doorways open.
Sunlight lays its hands upon my head
and energy cascades about my form.
It brings a scene shift on the stage of life
and I, as actor, need a different script
to follow.  Playwright, do you heed my words?
The backdrop changes daily. I have learned
that standing in the wings is not enough.
It's time to enter right and play my part.

See IGWRT's  Open Link Monday

Explanation

A replica will not be found in any book...
Look for a dog with big ears, and perhaps,
chaps, you will see what I see.
Heehee! No, not three, but two eyes... and his nose
goes according to plan. Man! He's ugly, though,
so be kind.
Find one small thing to inspire,
fire your imagination. Perhaps his long(ue ?)
tongue (hung left) is panting,
wanting water, or a friend to lick.
Quick!

Who will come to his rescue? Will you, Tess? For it is your Mag 218 which caused his creation thanks to Salvador Dali's equally strange image :-)

At The Going Down Of The Sun

Original Image by Penny Smith

Stillness spreads
over the landscape
as evening
stands poised on the horizon
   of another day.

An edit of something I wrote earlier, updated and posted for Poetry Jam.

Prepare Yourself

Pull up a side table equipped with snack, thermos and mug;
plug in the computer and prepare to feed the muse.
Use words floating in the air
where many books have left reading sessions'
impressions on the room's ambiance.
Dalliance with famous writer's ideas
appears to make our own, grow.
So devour the library from 'aye' to 'zee'.
See? Home comforts will
still be on offer to provide some
fun, as you can (between each scribble)
nibble on another toothsome,
winsome, chocolate coated digestive -
festive fare with style. 
Smile!!

Written for Tess at The Mag 217

Suitcase

Similar image found on eBay

Pack my life in a suitcase,
like one I had as a child,
with brown cardboard corners
rubbed grey and tin handle rattling,
as it lollops side to side
between silver  flip-clips
which open to display
a retro paper lining...

In first, goes a layer of war-torn sounds
to cower in corners.
Cover them with school uniforms
and scatter primrose memories
of picnics in the woods.

Layer paintings from college
with tears from teen dramas, until
confetti and a wedding veil shroud them
in mists of time, and baby powder scent
sends kisses and cuddles whirling
in ever growing spirals towards adulthood.

Tissue paper days of work and ageing,
of living, of loving, of life itself,
sandwich together as I press down
the lid to preserve my memories.

Margaret at IGWRT's set me off on a strange tack today, with her talk of asylums and artistic impressions...I hope my padded cell is ready?!

 “Write a poem that is full of personal emotion, sentiment, longing, confusion… wherever your mind takes you.”

This was a sentence near the end of the diatribe that I chose to focus on, as the rest was too depressing for words, and the mention of all the suitcases left behind did the rest…

There's No Accounting...

...for the way a prompt can lead the mind into lateral thinking. As I saw a Poetry Jam post on my long deserted reading list, and noticed the word 'Deserts', my initial reaction was to flip to 'desserts' an often mis-spelt, dictionary neighbour, but then two words took its place - arid desert. Is that tautology, I wonder? Nevertheless, it reminded me of a sad little poem I'd written in the days of my youth, which I decided to resurrect in the hope that some Poetry Jam sweetness might result, thereby  adding to its flavour. Not all deserts are sandy!

Apparition

Do I create you
from my own wishes
when suddenly you appear
at unexpected times?
I know when you're nearby.
Unbidden, my mind creates
a vacuum of suspense
and your form rushes
to fill the void
and breathe new life
into my existing  being.

Nothing can parallel
the surge of joy
that such chance meeting brings.
Love’s blossom blooms
in the arid desert of a day
till then without you
and my very soul takes wing.

P.S. Perhaps I should change the title to 'Mirage'?!

Easter Monday

Yellow-green gold, Euonymus leaves shine,
basking in their own beauty. Day uncurls
towards noon and flowers unfurl petals,
yawning, blinking into startled life. Birds
serenade Spring, composing symphonies
no pen could capture within black barred lines
of manuscript, perches only for notes
which can never be caged. And Easter-time
echos a message of hope around the world.


Written for IGWRT's Open Link Monday, this bright morning.

Refuge

Beyond the plantation, a mysterious glow lit the horizon. It seemed to creep closer, until it had outlined both young and old, and its energy drew them inexorably towards the source.

Indistinct bell-tones echoed through the crisp air, strands of notes swirling like garlands, to drape tree branches and shoulders alike.

There was a feeling of calm, and a great sense of homecoming as the people quickened their steps, eager to the reach their destination and begin a new life.

Written for The Mag  Thanks to Tess for the prompt, and to George F. Mobley, from whose photo 'Finland 1968' I chose this detail to play with.

Terri Daktill

Terri Daktill was a bird
without much wing or feather.
But in his mind he was quite sure
he was the best bird ever.

He strutted across desert plains
defying wind and weather.
But now his bones are fossilised
until the twelfth of never.

For he fell into a weed strewn pond
which had a muddy bottom,
and over time this mud ensured
he'd never be forgotten.

Terri is secure at last
thanks to primordial slime;
an image from our ancient past
he's a relic fused in time.

Earlier in the week I watched a great BBC program about a world heritage site in Messel, Germany, which has produced a wealth of fantastic fossils. I am indebted to that for my inspiration, as well as Tess and her Mag picture by Balthus, from which I produced this image.

Snozmole Wump

Beware the sleejus Snozmole Wump!
He's gloochier than a heffalump,
though somewhat of fraptode chump.
(Don't tell him!)

He snortles around rocks and stones
and loves to grind up brittle bones
of those who sit and kronk alone
to fell him...

He snortles over hill and dale
while gruttling for a fructus bale
of weedpoke stems, or bragmus tails
with lemin.

He snortles up the stairs at night
to give all babtot kips a fright
by smogrifying all the light,
and yellin'!

Best clup your eyes and huj your snout
whenever Snozmole Wump's about... 
Oh, no! My fribble friends, lookout!
He's comin'!

With thanks to Tess and apologies to Kelsey Hannah for this flight of fancy for The Mag 214.

Tired?

Moonlight seeks the satin sheets
but that bed is not inviting.
Both it and rubbish strewn around
shrink from such floodlighting.

Moonbeams say " We will not sleep,
but stay awake all night,
search-lighting through the blue-black sky
though trying not to weep.
We cannot find a place to rest
so have to do what we do best -
play evening peek a boo with stars
round Earth and Venus!"  Even Mars
cheers on their games,
" Go to it, children!" he declaims.
"Forget the bed and let it lie
and hide its face in shame,
while you skip round the whole night long
'til sun-flares fling their flames."


Written for The Mag, with thanks to Tess and Tracey Emin

Celandines

Five celandines lifted sunshine faces
to me, beaming from the grass by my door.

" Good morning, m'am, and how are you today?"

Their silent voices curtsied old fashioned
greetings across time.
                                        Once, the countryside
was called 'home' by many people - the towns
a farm-cart ride away, beyond blue hills -
and flowers like these would have been well known
to everybody... unremarkable.

But the gloss on the golden petals here
resembles plastic-coated packaging,
as though they have been factory processed
until all their natural beauty has been
overlaid with advertising slogans.

Only expectations and perspectives
have changed since the world was a simpler place,
but those changes have tarnished our vision,
until reality has dimmed, perhaps,
and our yardstick for measuring happiness
has changed too, beyond all recognition.



Linked to IGWRT's open Link Monday

Visitor

With elbows on the window sill,
dreaming at the moon,
I heard a lady humming
and I recognised the tune
as one my Daddy used to sing
sometimes - as tender-sweet
and soothing as a lullaby -
while he cuddled me to sleep.

I turned, and bright as moonlight,
she was sitting by my bed
quieting her baby...
Then she bent to kiss its head.

"I cannot stay my darling,
but when you hear this song
you'll always know that I'm nearby.
Be happy, and be strong;
my love will wrap around you
no matter where you are,
and I'll be watching over you
from up among the stars."

I never knew my Mammy
but last evening, I'd have sworn
I saw her for the first time,
though... she'd died when I was born.

Linked to Imaginary Garden with Real Toads's Open Link Monday

Predator

Big cats stalked
through childhood dreams;
they gave chase,
and I...
ran to climb trees.

My adult mind sneers.
"Lions? Imagination!"

Fearsome beasts hunt me still,
through those nights
when sleep is so unkind
as to leave me conscious
while being eaten.


Written for The Mag With thanks to Tess and Henri Rousseau.

Time to Dream

Alphabets
cushion the sleeper
as the books'
lullabies
sing their notes into his dreams
and birth new poems.




Inspired by The Mag and the original image called Poet's Sleep, 1989, by Chang Houg Ahn
Thanks Tess for choosing it...

Newness

Every second's new;
each tick of a tocking clock
offers its own unique chance
for us to ensure the next
will be better than the last...

Thoughts inspired by Poets United, and their mid-week prompt.