Poetry

The Gift of Eros

love and bird shit by gail

Aloft flies Eros; mischief fluttered wings

With silent rustle whisper overhead

By arrows pierced; the hearts of knaves and kings

The chilly grave, the restless lover’s bed

Blue London air, red Piccadilly light

Above the shifting crowd and constant noise

In summer heat, in neon and the night

He aims his slender bow with perfect poise

Aloft flies Eros; underneath his feet

As shadows of the Circus slowly shift

I contemplate my own love, bitter, sweet

The wound that Eros wrought in me, the gift

And as I turn my tears up to the sky

A pigeon drops an arrow in my eye

by Gail

Feathered Air

If flame there was ‘tis gone, all passion spent

Men long dead or demented tell no lies

No track or trace remains of where they went

Of whether they were wicked or unwise

If scent there was ‘tis blown, in feathered air

Decaying roses, lilies, ashes, mould

Unburied memories of who was there

A whisper on the wind, a rumour told

If blame there was ‘twas ours, for being blind

For keeping silent doubt for all these years

In tangled groves the truth is hard to find

As unmarked mad men’s graves; weep hopeless tears

For smoke there is, all round us like a cloud,

Obscuring the light of fire from the crowd

by Gail

Empathieves

my first sonnet…

empathieves

Are empaths thieves, of feelings not their own?

Like magpies stealing precious shining rings,

They see the pain by strangers’ faces shown

And understand our secret hidden things

Our tears run down their faces, our delight

May swell their hearts with love or blood or pride,

Fond friends, or someone lonely in the night

Who saw us on the telly and who cried

Unwitting thieves perhaps, but nonetheless

Possessed of power to bless or else to curse,

They know our soul while others merely guess,

May mean well and may love us much; far worse

The psychopath, who sees us without feeling,

Devoid of empathy, beyond all healing

***

by Gail

 

Transient Flame

For Steve

all flesh is grass

Transient Flame

*

How time flies;

Like birds and bees

Transient nectar

Deciduous trees

*

How leaves fall;

Like stars in sky

Meandering streams

Passers by

*

How oceans flow;

Like blood in veins

Wind over mountains

Bloom strewn plains

*

How life flames;

Like a fire fly

Light in the shadows

New born cry

* 

by Gail

Serious Women

For serious women everywhere, and for Philippa

serious women

Serious Women

*

Some of us have faces

That are less inclined to mirth

Mapped upon them traces

Of the journey from our birth

Inscrutable, mysterious

The face our mother gave

Inherently quite serious

Disconcerting, grave

See us in the street and we are

Focussed and unblinking

Eyes fixed on horizon far

Minding our own thinking

We’re not sad, or mad or bad

It’s just the face we’ve grown

You don’t know the life we’ve had

So frankly, mind your own

Control your neediness and fear

Your urge to poke and pry

We save for folk who hold us dear

The twinkle in our eye

“Give us a smile, darling”

“It hasn’t happened yet”

Trite words to get us snarling

“Excuse me?  Wanna bet?”

To the endless trivial

Comments offered everyday

We respond with the convivial

“It’s just arranged that way!”

*

If you don’t understand my face

How dare you stoop to diss it

My arse is well imbued with grace

So kiss it

*

by Gail

Tracey and the Boar

An apology to Tracey Emin for the rhyme ‘Not Feeling Tracey’s Badger’

written with unwisdom on the train home from

the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition…

 

hands up

Tracey and the Boar

 

I woke this morn regretting it

Saying Tracey’s Owl is s**t!

With one mean and sarky jerk

I cast aspersions on her work

The opinion that I hold of Tracey:

Brave and bold and rather racy

I’m just jealous of her balls

And that she has her stuff on walls

The girl’s been doing it for years

Painting truth through joy and tears

An artist’s path is long and rough

What right have I to knock her stuff?

The animals were pretty cute

(I swear I heard the Owl hoot)

Hands up, Tracey, I repent

For you are truly Eminent

*

If I were Tracey I would draw

This sorry poet as a Boar

by Gail

 

Journey to London, August 1st

Thoughts on Public Transport

 

 

Pewsey Hills

mist of Vale rising

unclothing hills of ivory

revealing glory

 

Wroughton

Over

Wrought

On

The

Bus

 

The Train Cuckoo

In the Reserved seats,

elsewhere by fate diverted,

invisible men;

weather, lover’s bed or grave?

What cares the cuckoo for why?

by Gail

Performance Poetry

Is it cool to review yourself?  Probably not…

Performance Poetry

 *

Mad gladiator

Tossing herself to lions

Armed with only wit

 *

Disinhibited

“Titties” brought out for the lads

In verbal foreplay

 *

Lyrical satire

Like pencils sharped for pricking

Holes in lead balloons

*

From naughty corner

More by wine amused than rhyme

A shadow giggles

*

The tumbleweed blows

Words settle on silent ground

With one hand clapping

*

The poet’s cloak hides

Shoulders warm and broad enough

To quiver with mirth

 *

by Gail

Catabolic Grace

Harvest by Oliver Freeman

‘Harvest’

reproduced with permission ©Oliver Freeman

http://www.oliverfreeman.me.uk/

this poem was inspired by the powerful images

of nature and decay; of beauty and desolation

in Oliver Freeman’s art

 

 

Catabolic Grace

*

land undulating

in to rolling furrows ploughed

defiant decay

waste of catabolic grace

dross in to gold in to dross

*

at the seasons edge

green waves, shining muddy rills

euphoric rising

flower painted battlefields

gold in to dross in to gold

*

by Gail