Spring Wind

Dandelion fairy clouds
jig with abandon
framed by blue,
freesias and port wine
magnolia aromatherapy
blast the senses,
pollens float
invisibly
itching my eyes
tickling my nostrils,
I skip a little,
sneezy season
has arrived.

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Slivers of Necessity

He made a choice
to leave.

He walks with suitcase
on a lead, battered
muddy, frayed airline
barcode still stuck to its handle.

He avoids the biggest potholes
on the road, an avenue
of once-belching factories
now brownfields.

The half-light of the evening,
whispers, ‘find a corner
before it’s too late
draw paper shutters tight’.

Slivers of necessity
push upon his temple.

Snails slither horns erect,
a patch of mustard weed
delicious evening meal
he stops to watch.

He remembers frenzied soldiers
on a spiral staircase.

A stone by a drain grows
four feet and a reptile head,
he shakes his head in disbelief,
listens for the angry wolf.

He trips into a slimy pothole,
hears the lullaby of frogs.

Through a crack crowned
with razor wire, he edges
careful not to break his skin;
a door half open beckons.

Necessity’s bounty provides
refuge for the night.

For

Open Link Night – Week 9

Gardeners in Spring

This is a terzanelle. It is my first attempt at one. If you want to know more about this form, which is similar to a villanelle here is a link to Lewis Turco’s site. He provides a succinct explanation and guide to this circular form.

Gardeners in Spring

Spring wind teases slender olive branches,
sunlight dances in a stream of raindrops,
gilded greys with cerulean patches.

Gardeners raking, planting summer crops;
a fish-bone silhouette catches signals,
sunlight dances in a stream of raindrops.

Her phone trills, she looks at it and dimples,
in the olive tree, two birds make a nest,
a fish-bone silhouette catches signals.

A neighbour stops to share a simple jest,
she blushes at his words, planting sweet pea seeds.
In the olive tree, two birds make a nest

With staged shock, he points at her ragged weeds,
the sun shines in a sailor’s patch of blue,
She blushes at his words planting sweet pea seeds.

Courting birds sing galliards in the yew,
spring wind teases slender olive branches,
the sun shines in a sailor’s patch of blue;
gilded greys with cerulean patches.

Flower Shop

This poem was inspired by a haiku by Amos1939 who will be well know to some of you from twitter,

“many love stories ~at a florist shop ~ if flowers can speak” (@Amoz1939, 05/09/11)

I could not resist, so here is a love story for Amoz’s florist shop.

Flower Shop

A tendril of hair escapes
a red silk bandana
careless tied, she pushes at it
impatiently, carefully placing baby’s breath
between hot pink long stemmed roses
flown from a green house
across the once exotic seas.
‘There are cards over here,
did you want to send a message?’

He picks through the cards
carefully reading copy
‘Deepest Sympathy, Happy Anniversary,
Congratulations on Your New Baby,
Happy Birthday, Many Happy Returns,
Sorry, Happy Valentine’s Day’.

They all sounded trite,
he was about to ask
for a plain slip of paper instead,
then he found a card
with a simple ink crane,
thankfully blank inside,
he sucked his pen,
furrowed his brow,
smiled and wrote:
‘Dearest Lillian,
you are my life,
please be my wife,
yours if you’ll have me,
Barry. XXX’

‘Would you like blue and orange paper,
and a pretty silver bow?
The driver will deliver them tonight’

‘That’ll do nicely.’

Scene

Silver nitrate melodrama;
a scene, a street somewhere,
a coffee house,
an undyed zombie stands outside,
crooked phalanges
beckon customers inside.

The band plays melancholy
three four music as people
promenade their Sunday best,
then a tango vamp,
enter a man in a bowler hat.
Chaplin takes the menu,
the zombie’s  hand
sits in his detached;
unseen the foley artist
rattles stones…
Fade to black.

Iris opens,
Chaplin’s eyes widen
filling the screen
then they are swallowed
by his mouth opening,
a silent scream;
the foley artist
scrapes his nails
across a sheet of metal.

Iris shuts.

Today, you will find many wonderful poems over at d’Verse Poetry  where the prompt is silent movies.