One step forwards, two steps back
Is a familiar manner we tread;
We seem unsure of which way to go,
A Labyrinth of routes in each head.
Do I go left, or do I go right,

Death’s a fact of life
Of this we’re all well aware
Sooner or later.

Art
In words
Or painting
Produces joy
Deep within the heart;
Centuries may pass by
But such works continue to
Stir warm feelings that linger on
Well after pen was put to paper

A raindrop falls
From a sullen sky;
A teardrop trickles
From her tender eye;
A snowdrop wakes
From its bed of snows;
Compassionate words
From her heart flows.

As wet as that rain

Purity of tears
Resting on a rich pink bed
Grows richer in time.

Tiny crystal ball
Rests on green baize surface
Seems to foretell storm.

You turn me on, you turn me off,
I don’t know what to feel;
One minute you say you love me,
The next, your heart you conceal.

Is it really love, I wonder,
Or is this all make-believe?

Black kiss

No love;

White hand

No glove.

Black rose

No thorn;

White tear

Not born.

Black tie

No Life;

White face

No wife.

Now black,

No light;

I’ve been on a country walk
And haven’t left my chair
All because I read a poem
Which placed me right there
Where she stood in the meadow
Amid dandelions and daffodils,

Black as coal and moody as teenagers
The storm steadily approaches home,
Rumbling, growing ever louder,
War-like violence above
Shaking homes and raw nerves
As frequent flashes

Here in the heart of dreams
I’m cocooned in your embrace
And the moon’s romantic beams
Are discernible on your face
As I relish and enjoy
Each memorable minute
Where nothing can destroy

Warmth emanates
From one soul to the other,
Smiles grow
Larger, and more pronounced
The longer contact continues.

Hands unite,
Each pulse beats
In perfect rhythm

Hanging on
A thin bending stem
A little bumblebee
Refuses to fall.

Wind blows stronger,
Ever tighter he clings,
Determined not to lose.

Tenacity is rewarded
As he buries his tiny head

I came with preconceived ideas
Imagining a lovely life,
One where no hint of hate
Would cut me like a knife.

I became part of this home
Expecting to be of some use
Not to feel unwanted

More rain is forecast for today,
Tears shall fall from clouds of grey;
Daffodils will drink to their fill
And shine in purest gold at will.

There's not a speck of blue at all