Morning Fog

I am in a shroud of mystery,
trudging over the football field,
goal posts of white and rust,
the mist is hanging heavy over.
Matted dead grass clings to boots,
summer’s greens and autumn’s golds,
watching the seagulls as they glide
in and out of the fog above me.

Ghostly houses in the near distance,
an empty easel in a third floor window.
I pass through the dying park,
a pastel purple shirted spectre,
leaves slowly start their turn,
an empty lead on a decaying bench,
a stone war memorial matches the sky.
places painted with rain in grey.

A Painting

Crawl into the painting,
slip in between strokes,
wrap up in warm colour.
It hangs there waiting,
in a drab sitting room,
dust over its entrance,
broken bottles below.
Beauty in chemicals,
powdered still waves,
an idyllic harbour,
away from the storm.
She stands there silently,
looking out to the seven seas,
water coloured by her charm.
A face that was never painted,
a familiar soul,
with welcoming arms,
beckoning the oceans,
inviting us to escape.

Halcyon Pale

You float,
that is the best way to describe it,
it’s also the worst,
you’re better than that.
Your skin is the palest blue,
you are the envy of the sky.
Clouds won’t touch you,
oceans will mimic you,
lost air who found each other,
an angel between atmosphere and space.
You’ve probably had many names
throughout our history,
clarity can’t compare.
I can’t define you,
never will we.
Halcyon Pale is how I think of you,
but it will never pass my lips.
You are forever.

Arms Aloft Into Scope

A spare room full of dreams and hope,
arms aloft to the submariner’s scope,
funk and New York nightlife join in.
Conversations through a stranger’s window,
enthusiasm, singing and my boy’s smile.
Red wine washes away the nine to five,
sun setting to blue and golden skyline,
holiday magic that money can’t buy.

Twitter #MicroPoetry (No.6 – 10)

140 No.6

Here I go again on my rocking horse,
riding towards hope’s white flame,
his oak gallop fills the room at night,
I scream and smash the lamp.

~~~

140 No.7

Were those ideas yours or mine?
At least we’re ambivalent.
We are in a secluded corner,
with a view of the world passing us by.
Who are you?

~~~

140 No.8

Break away
and get out of the ears,
the poison will run you down
at high speeds,
fauns will dance on your grave
if you’re not careful.
Halt!

~~~

140 No.9

Fingers concertina
under pressure.
Legs cross one way
then the other,
knots are tied in bones.
Fight or flight?
Why not both,
with yourself.

~~~

140 No.10

The last wisps of smoke escape
as cold breathing evens out.
Stroking beard so softly,
fidgeting fades out to stillness,
a distance is found.

Twitter #MicroPoetry (No.1 – 5)

140 No.1

Lost within swirling pains,
stabbed by a doll’s hunting knife,
luckily shunned by your boring,
pieces emerge faster now,
shooting out Pluto.

~~~

140 No.2

The boy has anonymous women around his thighs.
Something is missing in the cobbles.
Lights locked in a glass box.
Death will be on the wind.

~~~

140 No.3

Wolves will gather in the days to come,
our children’s children will never be safe.
Ignore the copper and run,
time will stop when you want.

~~~

140 No.4

Lying face down
hanging your head over a cliff.

You drag your body back with your toes,
hands to the sea,
the birds refused to get involved.

~~~

140 No.5

Frantic actions,
next one! Next one! Next one!
You’re losing all the time left
and you haven’t tried hard enough!
Don’t let the sand gather!

7 Years Old

“Are you going to come out? It’s OK”,
they ask.
Tears roll down a fat cherubs face,
7 years old,
hiding under a classroom table,
children can be so cruel.
My careers to date:
A Battenberg restaurateur.
Managing director of Jurassic Park.
A mad scientist.
A steam train driver.
Manchester United goalkeeper.
Princess Diana (with a wig improvised out of my school jumper).
Crazed enthusiasm, wild imagination,
anything is possible.
Swimming the oceans in the swimming pool,
hunting for fairies and insects in the corner of the field,
tomorrow I will be Inspector Gadget.