Another flower offered

It’s difficult to re-enter
a time before that afternoon,
the first rain laden sortie
into the hush of here.

The storm, it flung pebbles
from off the kerb,
and us too,
unwitting chess pawns
pushed upstream
to land within this cathedral.

We were the first, as it were,
to cross into a newly secured space,
awaiting the next move
played by an unknown hand.

That only came in its own time,
as the weather
and our hearts lightened.

Tracing plainly adorned columns,
I felt sure a withered vine
climbed to the ceiling,
only to resurface near the vaults,
where unexpected, it lit up, bloomed

a stained-glass sunflower.

Poetry, it doesn’t speak to me

I often have to tap it
upon its shoulder,
before it turns around
and chats freely.

I recall one such time
it did reveal itself,
it became a tattered flyer
on a Parisian lamp post.

How strange.
Why Paris?

It read
(loosely translated of course)
“For one night only,
an extravaganza of words,
bring your own leg,
and meet me here.”

I assumed by leg the translation
faltered somewhat.

It also didn’t exactly state which night,
what time or what the significance
of the lamp post was.

Or for that matter, who ‘me’ was.

Some things are the same
in every country, cryptic.

When I did return,
a little dog stopped by,
sniffed my leg and
wrote something post-modern.

It can go that way sometimes.

Tales and other furry tales

The dance of tigers seems ill fitted
to this life of camouflage,
who might prowl or might bounce
over cobbled streets.

Under baskets of summer cheer
a mind’s grass can be lengthened,
covering a much wilder nurture.

Pawsteps behind footsteps
to pass at another watering hole,
and feel the reds brimming orange
under chameleon surface skin;
a were-tiger deliberates
on showing off his full palette.

Behind all bookshelves, authors
scented, preyed upon,
spines bright with treetop imagination.
New targets to steadily devour,
yet claws are retractable scratchers
where the unknowing becomes known.

The tigger which is clamoured
to be released, taps a tango
or two with his colourful, swinging tail.
And you thought the tiger
was a real one? Imaginatively it is.

Sneezed away in time

If secrets die
when memory fades,
when minds do
eventually crumble,
then simple,
household dust
yet still may hold
all the enigmas
of this particle world.

So I urge you,
dust carefully
and acknowledge its value,
before you clean away
the snuff of the once held,
once breathed,
undisclosed dream.

Zen garden

There was nothing
else to personally seek
as bamboo did swim,
and stones became islands
to the eastern wind,

that hadn’t been left
there in blanket moss,
inside gravel water circles,
eons and moments ago.

Piano practice

His gloved fingers
whirl white Mexican waves,
prepare to strike ivories
in practiced choral patterns.

A rubber band s-t-r-e-t-c-h
over that distant, black one;
should be played flat,
but it pulled very sharp!

“No matter dear,
the piano is over-sized.”

She comforts, sings as he plays
to drown those mistakes.

Her unbelievable cats’ notes
swell right from an ample chest;
a deep pair of breaths
can make his eyebrows arch
in bristling tom-cat applause.

Nothing is what it seems

~ under the bed.
which is to say
under the dense mattress,
where carpet border
meets wire frame springs,
and I can breathe
in a space I reach for
subconsciously;
once able to crawl there.

Tonight slides under
the top-most pillow,
the nearest I’ll get
to tunneling my way
into ice-bound Narnia.
Pushing back linen
like plush wardrobe fur coats.
Except no fauns found here
to welcome by lamplight,
in cold comfort
and weathered seasons,
in grown-up dreams.

It snows in the dark
each breath noticeable,
inhale today, exhale
into tomorrow for warmth
to be returned;
the day after the thaw,
chills will not prevail.

In another space,
I edge past a white witch
which bullies me
into not quite believing
in myself, her icicle aim
to leave me in perpetual winter.
Yet a lantern
is pressed between my palms
by a lion, Aslan.

Eyes with glimmer that he needs
to sustain as fireside coals.

Usually he shows up
one page before
his untamed illustration,
paws still wet with artist’s colour,
his paint trail tail shows the route
to pass safely
the forests beyond cares.

And a waking begins,
only is it noticeable
C S Lewis is here too
under the storyline trees
still typing the scene;
he wants me to continue
towards “Once upon this time”,
close the chapter
on winter land emptiness,
and write of a melt to come.

I’m not too sure about this poem. It’s based upon
the CS Lewis story “The Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe”,
where a witch prevents winter from ending or spring
from beginning (whichever way you wish to look at it)

* The italic phrases aren’t from the book, they’re just my own
turns of phrases that possibly might be found there
(if that makes sense)