The Artist

The artist smiles, as sunlight plays across the vista of her mind,
Chalk and paint rubbing creative shoulders like old friends.
Leaning forward now, she falls into emotive colour blends,
Inspiration finding her, where others would be blind.

Creation prances swirling strokes, like woodland deer,
Crimson blends with snowflake just beneath the skies.
Smoky liquid blue stands still reflected in the artist’s eyes,
Her dream unfurling cross the page so clear.

Realising dreams is how the artist lives her days,
She dares to risk the torture of the lonely soul.
Breathing life into the moment, making whole,
Forging natures hues through dreamscape velvet haze.

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My Ladies Garden

My ladies garden waits, in shadows of  a well remembered yesterday,
The blooms are but young buds in Shakespeare’s kingdom.
The dull February days have stilled the hand of natures play

They whisper low, who watch and wait and sigh for long ago,
And woodland creatures wait for sun to warm the barren land.
Long ago, long ago, the older trees speak low.

They shall return, they who kissed and lingered in other days,
But for now the garden sleeps and dreams, a dream no man could know.
They who vowed so long ago will come with suns bright rays.

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Oh my English Rose
For my English Rose wherever she is?

Oh my lady fair with your silken hair and English Rose complexion.
Won’t you stay a while, let me see your smile, which knows no imperfection
Will you laugh with me, let me carve the tree, let our hearts entwine together
Know the truth I feel, that this love is real, let our souls be joined forever.

As I kneel to pray, these few words I say, let our love like food sustain me
May I kiss your hand? Do you understand that this day has set me free?
Will you be my wife, all the days of my life, let me live my life for you
Could I stop the time, with these hands of mine. I would steal this moment true

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The Lighthouse of my heart

You are the lighthouse of my heart, the harbour of my soul.
And you are the dreamer of my scenes.
You are the inspiration of my day, the wish I find fulfilled,
And laying down to sleep my dreams.

You are the sunlight of my morning, the breath of each new day,
And you are my artists needed thought.
You are the healer of my wounds, the torch that lights my night,
And sleeping my guardian angel sought.

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What Will Tomorrow Bring?

What will tomorrow bring? Perhaps a glimpse of future glories?
Or will it be but one more dark defeat.
It could be so different, with but a word,
But I’ll not build my castles amid the ruins,
I will not wait, anticipating tomorrow’s fruits,
No with patience I will hope and live but for the moment.

What will tomorrow bring?
Perhaps a taste of heavens gate,
Or will it be another cold December; it could be warm July with you.
But I’ll not expect what may not be, nor sing of victories not yet won.
No with little thought I’ll call upon the morn to come.

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Trench Fear

I saw death stand in no man’s land,
As I hid in my gas filled trench.
And I heard death call, as my friends did fall,
And the air was filled with a stench.

How I miss my wife, and the other life,
And the peace of a world without pain.
Now I’m stranded here, in this land of fear,
With a corpse and a leg that’s lame.

I can hear deaths dance, as I seize my chance,
And I crawl to some friends I can see.
But a sound fills the air, and I see deaths cold stare,
And I know that it isn’t to be.

There’s a silent refrain, which I feel in my brain,
And my thoughts turn to some yesterday.
Oh my God I see death, as I gasp for a breath,
And he closes my eyes to the day.

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Going Home

I came to you from yesterday,
And I found in you my tomorrow.
The love I feel goes beyond this place,
When I’m in your arms, within your embrace.

The road is long, but you ease my pain,
When you look at me, do you feel the same?
My soul cries out, can you hear your name,
When you’re not with me, nothing seems the same.

I’m on my knees, tears in my eyes,
Three stars above in December skies.
A soul must leave, journey on its way,
Please don’t leave me here, this is all I pray.

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The Northern Plain

There’s a frozen spot, on a northern plain,
Where the winds moan low, in a lost refrain.
It’s a hellish place, where the lone wolves cry,
And a man can freeze, in the wink of an eye.

There’s an ice-cold waste on that northern plain,
Where the northern sky weeps a tear of pain.
It’s a lonely place, where a man can die,
And a dying prayer would be lost on high.

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THE PEEK-ABOO

The Peek-A Boo is not a bird,
Nor is it dog or cat.
More like a toothless crocodile,
Or a lemon flavoured bat.

Its feathers grow on Saturdays,
And it sheds them by mid-week.
It likes to study Shakespeare,
Even though a Boo can’t speak.

The Boo can’t write, or read, or spell,
Or call a loved one dear.
It never cries on Sundays,
And has never tasted beer.

Some men have tried to catch them,
With plans and traps and net.
But all the toast in Quebec,
Hasn’t caught a Boo as yet.

The Peek-A Boo comes out at night,
And never knocks a door.
Its favourite food are little cakes,
It cooks at gas mark four.

So leave a little light on,
And don’t stir the chicken stew.
Don’t ever call the police out,
What would they think of you?

For you could turn a corner,
Or form a one-man queue.
And hark from out the shadows,
You will hear a Peek-A Boo.

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The Dentist

I sit in a room full of pictures of teeth,
When a young nurse called Ruth, walks in with a wreath.
There’s a thrill in the air, when Ruth calls out my name,
And I’m led to a chair and locked in a frame.

Now you’ll please open wide, he says with a leer,
As Ruth throws in the metal, now my mouths in top gear.
If I look at that wall, while he works on that tooth,
Then I won’t see the hammer, passed skilfully by Ruth.

The pain you just felt, he says with a smile,
Was anything but a slip with a file.
You’ll be right, you’ll be fine, he says with a wink,
If you turn to your left, you can spit in the sink.

If your eyes are both keen and your lips well pursed,
Then you might just miss my nubile young nurse.
Now that’s great, you can go, he says with a moan,
And I rush through the door, as my mouth starts to foam.

Now I’m out in the street, as I stumble and fall,
And I lay on my back, I hear somebody call.
I raise myself up from my new place of rest,
And find myself handcuffed and under arrest.

The cops don’t believe me; they say that I’m mad,
And I’m thrown in a cell, with folks who are bad.
I tell them my tale, with a tear in my eye,
And the one called big bubba, gives me some rye.

So think about dentists and think very well,
They’re not always nice and some of them smell.
But if you have tooth ache and feel that you should,
Make sure there’s no Ruth in the dentist in your neighbourhood.