my brain is dead
a numbskull
an imbecile
a rotting lump of lard
it wakes this morning
in the throes of emptiness
it has drank my coffee
and nibbled a nibble
it has opened the curtains
dived in the shower
drank another coffee
and nibbled another nibble
so here it is
writing an empty thing
a parched breath of morning
a slice of cake
without the cream!
this slow burn of time
those morning clouds
silent trees
and waking birds
light becomes
humans wake
to ruin the burn
the slow burn of this
After all that rain
all this …
I wake to see art.
Sitting here
with the clocks back an hour
I’m in bed with a coffee.
That bright ball of wool
is being tugged along
by cosmic cats
leaving its fluffy warmth
to permeate the sodden
storm-filled cloak.
Mist curls to chase
the mewing
only to lose substance and fade.
Art remains
to seize the day
and obliterate the night.
They appeared
in those days
as a feeling
and finished
I felt them.
I knew when a poem
was coming through
because of the pain
my head would be bursting
for days on end
and then a poem
worked better than pills.
Sometimes, thankfully
I’d get a weird gut feeling
and I knew
I felt
and I wrote.
Now I’m on different pills
so my blood isn’t boiling
my head isn’t bursting
and my gut isn’t feeling
so often
but neither is the poetry
(except for this 3am sleepless drivel!)
As mist escapes the clutches of the night
feeling its way through branches of time
see how it comes alive
to the sound of the crow dawn dance
Oh listen to the cawing
as they burst through the mist
see their swirls of song erupt
in magnificent trails of flight
Listen to them now
shaking the dew from their wings
as they dance the crow dawn dance
wingtip stroking wingtip
Oh the noise
the beautiful noise
as they soar above treetops
with their voices scratching away morning chill
The sound of the crow dawn dance
echoes in the distance
fading like the mist
Oh they’ll be back tomorrow
Included in my book, ‘After the Rain’, 2017
Available from My Author Page at Lulu.com
A themed challenge on Winter.
***
Ears on fire
fingertips hurt
pin cushion cheeks
a nose that’s burnt.
All this pain
I will endure
on a morning like this
air crisp and pure.
Ducks do practice
for Dancing on Ice
A Heron to judge
a look that could splice.
Further along
the canal takes a twist
where skimming snowflakes
a winter morn’s bliss.
All this happens
while you’re so fast asleep
you miss the wonders
of mid-winter’s treat.
So do what I do
and wake with the birds
put on your clobber
and tread virgin earth.
A Gap In The Clouds 