Friday, 14 July 2017

Sonnet 1dot8

Here's one you may have read  before...

It's a sonnet? Crivvens!

Ok, so Wullie Shakes wrote 154 of these 14-line epics and I've hardly penned a dozen, but time is on my side - and yon bard is deid lang syne.

Sonnet 1dot8


Shall I compare her to a summer's day;
how would such measure fare? I remonstrate:
all prose conveys its meaning come what may,
whilst poems, let's say, are fine attempts to state,

sometimes relate, with metaphor and themes,
our higher selves, we human beings' grace,
yet every foot that taps this rhythm seems
to question why we'd limit half the race

to gloried days, give mummer's praise, assign
by that a trope that's toiled – I fear that's lame.
Unfailing fair and full of life she rhymes,
outshines all suns that set in blushing shame.

As long as she adorns this world you'll see,
far more than summers' days is she to me.

Friday, 7 July 2017

The vertigo of a kiss

The vertigo of a kiss


...and then we would embrace
on sidewalks – borne on air –
and osculate, a bonding,
self-adhesive Pair,

unmindful of the lookers
on – who maybe sit –
jealous of our clinching,
countersinking Fit.

Neither can resist the Want.
It is the Pull – expressed –
by primordial magnetics,
gifted to the Blessed.

When she ebbs, the Maelstrom quickens,
racing up – to This –
When she flows, it's like the current
in the Vertigo of a Kiss.

Friday, 30 June 2017

At break of day

At break of day


It breaks through morning windows, light
which cannot fail to end the night,
illuminate the unmade bed,
bring gleams to life on pillowed head,
outline the form that breathing lies
quite still, devoured by lover's eyes
whose tender gaze at break of day
alights where jealous sunbeams play.

Friday, 23 June 2017

Drowned

Drowned


Eyes of green entice. Mischief
on a pillow. Hair strewn awry
lures my lover's look. Allure
brooks no timorous touch.
From feint impressions traced
by finger tips that linger long
on freckles passion beckons.
O how she looks. Engulfed,
I drown in wells of green.

Friday, 16 June 2017

You

You


What can I say of you that counts for aught
against this forceful feeling in my breast?
I start to speak and fail to utter words;
the sounds exhaled mere sighs and cries
that tell you more than any poem.
A helpless man turned upside down,
in turmoil to his inmost core,
where insistent roils a sickness – love.
For you. Ah you, my love, it's YOU

Friday, 9 June 2017

The night owl

The night owl


She perched on the edge,
watching, patient, attentive.
It wasn’t the talons that held,
nor the wide-eyed triumph
in the moment that fascinated;
it was the noiseless, swooping descent,
her secret, silent flight.
Are you man or mouse?
she said.

Friday, 2 June 2017

Tailored

Tailored


They went at it like tailors
fashioning
birthday suits,
stitching
bodies together, fingers
unencumbered,
multi-coloured threads
threading
their way through hair,
limbs shorn,
scissored,
hands crafting patterns,
collar and cuffs,
buttonholing
the needle's eye.