Poetry is my therapy

I walk the beach alone Just a shadow, looking for love.  The sea races back and forth; Dry and salty lips.  The sand is cooling, The breeze is tantalising  As I wander in search of ‘The One’.  We have the gift And the gift to make a baby.  So reliant for everything - Unconditional love. Their smile with such joy.  An inquisitive, innocent person;  They ask the most amazing questions.  Our souls as one mother and father  On a perfect summer’s day.  Sunlight dances as a mirage.  The perfume of the pine trees.  The sun is mesmerising. A picnic of champagne and strawberries  As we sit and lay naked.  We stare into each other’s eyes, Hands caressing each other’s skin.  The intimacy of love.  You feel every inch of me.  Our hearts race, Sweat runs down my face As we bite lips, An earthquake erupts.  A heavenly sensation of lust and passion....

There is a place of hope On a forgotten battlefield.  The young draw their knives; Slash, cut of blood In a gang feud.  As we cuddle our children  A black bag lies - A meaningless gift of life On a sidewalk of graffiti.  No menace, no tears An arrow with a stare.  The feud is pointless. A shriek wipes the drum beat; A hum.  The black raven crows, The chapel bell chimes; The Grim Reaper knocks as we sleep. Death demands my eyes.  The judge says “Guilty” For I sin; even Satan fears me.  “I shall use you as I please  Down on your knees, whore! Worship my feet, I am the beast. You shall eat me for dinner.  I am the Master! Hate, hate, hate me! The pain.... Hurt me, bitch!” As I bite and scratch  I pull your hair; With fire I lust for the orgy; This meat on a plate.  The snake spits; Your fury is my wrath!  I lie, this debt is mine Of adultery.  I a...

The heat!  I can fry an egg on a path in Turkey  On an August morning.  The warmth of a fire on a cold, bleak day; The feeling as I soak up Vitamin D.  The memory of the bath is soothing.  With a weeping willow all is joy.  I remember the colour of the everlasting sand.  On my finger a snowflake crystallises, Particles of mass shine down upon me.  A dry fire of ash.  Now life begins -  A path of ice is a faultless cover on a pond.  A Polar Bear wanders in starvation.  With a spring in my step I ride the globe of life.

Give me a Hand A point with hairs  It’s rough and smooth But hard within.  A microchip skin overlapping.  It’s cold but warm with feeling.  A fitted glove  It’s amazing with its multiplications Five, ten, calculating digits.  A gripping device, A kaleidoscope of colours; Pink, black, brown, blue spots Dotted here and there.  Taken for granted, Stretching like elastic -  A safety device With a knuckle-duster - A fist of anger! I recoil - a lifting tool. Time to say “Hello, It’s nice to meet you,” To the other pinky on my hand.  A bionic machine of instant responses,  A golden circle of promises and love.  I point to the sky as I grip the steering wheel And accidentally slit my skin Fashioning a cut.  Deeply I hurt with a plaster.  A means of signing for the deaf  And a touch for the blind.  Tom Thumb rests by my side  With fingers cr...

Dandelion A wee wee of vanity Stings me.  A thorn of poison ivy, A strobing globe of light In the sky. A nuclear reactor of particles  Clocking as I stand motionless in time.  Tick-tock, blow away time We see a flat hat place With superglue of oxygen In my suit.  I breathe deeply for the rise and fall A mirror with five sides With a smile beaming down on me A man in white breathing carbon dioxide A footprint of endless art.  They rise from our kerb and  drown out rivers and Ducks leave.

The hooves of HedgeHunter - It’s bets on horses. Lucky with Songster;  War veteran from fields in Leicestershire.   The blacksmiths labour; The book Black Beauty.  Jockeys race as cowboys arrive In Land Rovers with horseboxes.   The ghost of Shergar -  Vets hoover straw in paddocks And the Lords gallop for Trooping the Colour.   Fox hunters bugle in protest - A chase against time with the bell from the Church steeple.  Ears sharpen my voice, neck to neck - Good news - Red Rum to celebrate! Godspeed to the betting shop; His finger to his shaking lips, With ladies’ hats  And champagne for their winnings - All at Aintree, As I go to a play called ‘War Horse.’

“The Last Post” by Rob Holt A German Broom in Bugloss fields - A Burning Bush with a red sea of salad.  As false winds Foxtail, Crowfoot wallows in mud And Lords and Ladies cross in zig-zag trenches.  Jack-by-the-Hedge peeps out at the Black Horehound, While Cats Ears listen for Creeping Gromwell.  A Bugle announces that Greater Burdock has won the Kingcup.  Scentless Gypsy Weed weaves through the Soldiers-and-Sailors To the Heather-clad mountain of Jack-in-the-Pulpit.  Hearts Ease as dead souls whisper “Forget-Me-Not.”