A flower by another name

 

I often drift deep

in thought, sleepwalking

through a lavender daydream.

Watching the world dazzle

in the marigold sunbeams.

I sink into the scenery like it is

memory foam. The trees, the greenery,

the stunning sunlight frieze

painted on the wall, the clinging ivy

of thoughts that climbs tall

through the brickwork.

Dancing to the melody of life.

Wistful wisteria twisting around my mind.

 

Day and night, I watch

silently, whilst life flows past,

in chrysanthemum mist,

notepad in hand.

As the sunlight casts

deep shadows across bluebell skies,

those angelica eyes,

and in them

I see primrose growing through

the chasms of darkness.

Evening glows across,

my mind in throes of excitement.

So, I write it all down. A flower

by another name, always ingrained

in my awestruck mind.

 

I frame my days in poetry

lined in limelight soliloquy.

Symbolism seeded

in metaphorical flurries,

a sonnet or an ode, a whisper

or a roar,

a flood or a drought, a storm

or the calm.

 

I live in the woes,

and I rise with the rose,

I flow like fog around the feet,

and I soar like the clouds

as I paint

flowers across the screen.

 

For beauty mimics beauty

and all I see is you,

and you would barely notice,

but I'm there, intoxicated on

the perfumed air, writing poems

hoping for your ears

to hear me breathe.

Whether it be the sunlight

or the moon that sighs

through the leaves.

A hug before summer leaves

 

Weathered veins climb the bark,

aiming for the stars, some light in the dark.

Sunlight of the heart.

And branches reach out through the sky,

peaceful arms to pull us closer in...

A hug before summer leaves.

 

Will you hold my heart once

the chill becomes real?

 

A dance in the summer evening breeze,

a whiplash heartbeat. And we sit on the

swaying tyre-swing, gripping tightly

to the moonbeams of love swinging

through the clouds. Childish glee

dancing across eyes that see

mystery and magic in perfect harmony.

 

I wish I could set an alarm,

sleep away the coming winter.

The drizzle, the downpours, the chill

cold of my heart without you.

The fire that ignites so much heat inside.

I could hide away, hibernate until May,

to always wake under a sky of vibrant blue,

not the grey clouds I see coming into view.

 

The dawdling rays of sunlight

amble across my skin, like the warming

embrace you pour around me.

A gift wrapped in heartstring ribbons.

My walls crumble little by little,

but it is too late I fear, for winter is knocking,

and there is a growing chill to the air.

 

For the winter of my mind

is bleak and unloved.

It is a rush of blizzards and snow flurries.

No daisies, no yellow buttercups.

Just harsh weather-beaten grass,

faded colours and mud-splattered memories,

haunting choir-sung melodies.

A time of loneliness,

a whispered promise freezing up,

an icy lake, a frost giant statue

of words I failed to say,

and some songs I should have played.

 

But maybe, I think, tear in my eye,

and a cry in mind, maybe this year,

I'll step into the cold and feel its magic.

The snow-capped streetlights,

the frostbitten high-rise,

the grey-haired trees.

The memories reflecting from the ice,

glorious colour pouring into my eyes,

fireworks light in my mind,

and I remember the magic of winter as a child.

And you hand me back my warmed heart

I think, okay, this year I'll play.

Stone of despair

 

There are days, endless nights,

weeks when it rains, continuously.

Where my body feels wracked in pain,

my brain doesn't work, and my work

seems like I'm just pouring my

thoughts down the drain, along

with any unfulfilled dreams.

 

I'm like a boat on an ocean,

lost at sea. The stars hiding away,

the sun and moon no longer rise

to guide, I'm just floating, as the long

darkness stretches out before me.

 

It's an effort to stop the screams

pushing themselves from my lungs,

knowing that once they hit dead air

they will just drop.

Flat.

A stone of despair

at my aching feet.

 

It gets too much, no human touch,

no contact. Alone with my thoughts.

 

And everything I touch just turns to dust,

no Midas luck in my fingers,

just a ghost of a hand holding mine.

One I know should be there,

but is faded, evaporated into the air.

 

I try to force words,

to make my pieces sing,

I pour my art into everything,

until I'm an empty vessel,

just carrying dead weight

as it crushes my chest.

Sometimes it stings me to the core,

I see my work overlooked,

on a shelf gathering dust.

My heart untouched, barely

so much as glanced towards.

 

But then I remember,

I've been here many times before.

The storm before the calm.

Rumbles of discontent, a moment

to lament, and a restless head

thrashing on a pillow of dread.

 

But it always passes. In time

I see the world again in rainbow

glasses. The colour, the magic,

and the love I have inside is still

oceans wide. But I know I'll hit

land eventually, so I let those

waters calm my stormy mind.