No straight Lines
Excerpts from a Poem anthology
It's barely light, the covers waft,
their clouds of sleep warmed air.
I know it's weird to even dream,
of getting out of there.
But better still, than cosy nest,
and catching last night's dream.
Is catching first, the dawn's first light,
This sacred time between.
There's snuffling and sighing,
as slumber still goes on.
And warily my socks pad past,
the boards they creak upon.
For precious time awaits me now,
carved out before the day.
And woe betide the faulty clock,
which takes this time away.
As steam swirls from my mug, I grasp,
The words that float on by.
As free as birds and music notes,
I snatch their lullaby.
For this is no man's land this time,
Of Snoozing child and souls.
When Artists, and the dreamers rise,
Creations swim in shoals.
They swirl in space like air borne sweets,
Just slightly out of reach.
Dust motes, golden, winged new dreams,
Language yet to teach.
There's a time for everyone,
Somewhere that is home.
Somewhere you can breathe some more,
Yours, and yours alone.
Dawn the sanctuary of all,
The Poets, Artists, dogs.
Kettle on, we swipe the pane,
Throw the fire a log.
While the world still safely sleeps,
Sunrise slowly climbs.
Still and quiet, ours alone,
Marking brand new lines.
Try it; there are pockets there
Magic still to find.
Dawn awaits with arms outstretched
If you're so inclined ...
A wardrobe full of rainbows
So why do we wear grey?
Just because the shops are closed
The sweats come out to play.
Pyjamas are my new best friend,
I keep them on from noon
The news is dark, the papers full
Of never-ending gloom.
I’ve started being floaty from the moment I wake up
And pad around in yoga pants whilst cradling a cup
It’s not that I like grey or cream or trousers that are big.
Oh no I’m being sensible and just a little hygge.
The bike for indoor cycling is gathering lots of dust
And we all know that wireless bras are kinder on the bust.
I am acutely sussed when it comes to matters gluten
However, nice white toast and marmite often kicks the boot in.
Every single plan I make on every single Monday
Is still as valid as I know I'll be an angel one day
It’s good to have a bit of something naughty in your life
I’m not out drinking brandy, wearing leather, causing strife.
We just put up with bloating and the nap which is inevitable,
From gorging on food which has taste, and makes our mealtimes edible.
Once a week please keep your salad, quinoa and the like.
Put the lycra back and hang the towel over the bike.
We’ll have bagels, eggs and salmon, covered in cream cheese.
And spend the day in slippers watching rubbish on t.v.
Things are better anyway, with something more to cuddle.
And you’ll find us in a heap, of blankets, pet and human huddle.
Tell me when it’s over, and I’ll be virtuous then.
Although do not expect me, still to be, a perfect toned size 10.
A robin stands upon the fence
And dares me not to look,
His feathers ruffle in the wind
Perfect and picture book.
Another joins him at his side
And steals his limelight spot,
But what he doesn’t realise
Is how much he has got.
He is a little hungry
And I shake mealworms on the table
Shelter I am wondering
Is underneath the gable?
We feed the birds and pity them,
their lowly winter plight
but what if they are looking in
and knowing they take flight…
At any given moment
And would rather be themselves
That they don’t need the tv
Or the junk we put on shelves
Or cupboards full of things
we maybe, never, ever need
when all that is important
is a little bit of seed
It is a humbling thought
as we bluster through the day
that there are many obstacles
we put along the way.
That this time in particular
Has made us realise
What we wouldn’t give
To be a robin who could fly.
Myself and I
A cascade of old photos,
Shows how much time goes by.
Behind my face I peer at me,
Myself, my life and I.
She looks a bit like someone
Frozen in a backwards glance.
A snapshot of a memory,
A shoulder bumped by chance.
Her eyes are gently mocking,
For the things she’s yet to feel.
The sadness, joy and thunder,
Carves out a path more real.
For her, there is forever.
Still in hopeful, youthful gaze.
A thousand opportunities,
For lazy summer days.
And we see floating futures,
inside our younger eyes.
Surround us fly winged memories,
Each vibrant fairground prize.
Visions of our ‘one day’,
Our hero selves ahead,
The grown up real, unbroken;
Then life unfolds instead.
For our unblemished faces,
Catch light from all our lines,
And carve each new expression,
A portrait sketched from time.
Softly softly buttercup,
Hold your tiny face
Tell me what your petals tell?
Intricate as lace.
Do they tell of melted toast?
Beside a roaring hearth.
Dippy eggs and soldiers too,
Fresh from Summer's bath.
Yellow bite size sunshine,
Yellow eyelid's haze,
Yellow morning's wonderment
Languid summer days.
Golden bite size soldiers,
Ten crisp toasty men.
No chin safe from butter's charm;
Time reversed again.
Liz At The Beach Hut