A haiku
Greens wrapped in cling film
Scratches of clawing sharp winds.
Underneath we breathe.
By me
Laying in Springs grass
the shades of sky above bend.
Stars blind as we stare.
—
Blanket warms comfort
in front of TV fortress.
Childhoods repeated.
by me
Lampshade shadow
arcs high through day silently.
Sent home to die.
—
Artex ceiling greys
whispers into confusion.
Seek silent channels.
by me.
Late October. It is afternoon.
My daughter and I walk through the leaf-strewn
Corridors of the park
In the light and the dark
Of the elms’ thin arches.
Around us brown leaves fall and spread.
Small winds stir the minor dead.
Dust powders the air.
Those shrivelled women stare.
At us from their cold benches.
Child, your mittens tug your sleeves.
They lick your drumming feet, the leaves.
You come so fast, so fast.
You violate the past,
My daughter, as your coat dances.
— By Anne Stevenson
In a hive somewhere
bees slowly distill sweetness
limited in me.
Drown in syrupy pure love
on bread baked by my hearts heat.
by Me
Acorn crowned with snow
kingdom swamped in white surrender.
View from branch castle.
Pastry rolled duvet
oozing lovers fill inside.
Baked slow overnight.
—
Grizzled tidal marks
now winters long full white beard.
This storm still rages.
—-
By Me
The Sometimes Series
Sometimes
I link my thumbs together and flap my fingers
with graceful albatross strokes
to fly away.
Then as my arms cannot stretch any further
I realise with a heavy sigh
its hard to fly away.
Sometimes
I just want to blow
on the bald patches
of the gentlemen in front of me
queuing at Tesco.
Just to remind them.
Is this the river East I heard?—
Where the ferries, tugs and sailboats stirred
And the reaching wharves from the inner land
Ourstretched, like the harmless receiving hand—
And the silvery tinge that sparkles aloud
Like the brilliant white demons, which a tide has towed
From the rays of the morning sun
Which it doth ceaselessly shine upon.
But look at the depth of the drippling tide
The dripples, reripples like the locusts astride;
As the boat turns upon the silvery spread
It leaves—strange—a shadow dead.
And the very charms from the reflective river
And from the stacks of the floating boat—
There seemeth the quality ne’er to dissever
Like the ruffles from the mystified smoke.
By Samuel Greenberg
Danced with raised glasses
we toast your commitment.
Love fills this Great Hall.
Inspired by a friends wedding
By me.
