The artist is a liar About painting only what he sees In front of him. Slick lies of seduction slipping from his lips, Falling from his tongue, Like leaves falling from a wintered tree. He tells so many lies It’s a wonder he doesn’t go blind.
That naked breast she offers On fingers thin and sharp as boning knives Is not offered for free. Painting the aureole so dark Only the juice of damsons could create Such a full, rich, bruising.
This dance hall dame, remote and lethal, Puts no value on any part of her body. It’s all for sale For a wad of the folding stuff.
The artist rhapsodised about her hair, Her eyes, her implacable face. But no-one on earth could mistake That sullen, knowing mouth For the mouth of a woman Who has given in to seduction.
I’ll say! That’s the mouth of a woman Keeping her trap shut And counting the money.
The artist is a liar, Telling so many lies It’s a wonder he doesn’t go blind. Certain that this painting is so beautiful People will fight to have it on their wall.
When, all the time, he knows he has painted Her ancient and watchful soul, All bandaged about with suffering.
I love gates. Gates are the very things I am fond of. Not the huge iron gates Crackling with steel mesh And threats, To keep you in, But the lovely little Wooden gates, Awash with tall grasses And latches, To let you out. These gates, I love.
Thankfully, I now have limited access to notifications. Unfortunately, I still cannot access any notifications generated over this past week but, hopefully, this situation will be sorted soon. Thanks to all.
Every year on Armistice Day, the 11th day of November, at
the eleventh hour, we remember all those who have died
or been hurt in war. We remember, too, all those who have
been caught up in violence, who have trembled with pain,
wept with sorrow and grieved for the pain and loss of those
they love. The poppy is the symbol of remembrance.
Lately, poppies are in the fields, Beaming amongst the yellow corn, Smiling in the tall tangle Of wayward grasses and nubs of moody ragwort In the hedgerows. Careless, it seems, of the close threat Of the dark, the bitter nettle, Crowding their calm loveliness.
When rain comes, the nettle rejoices As those lovely heads are beaten into the dust. For a while, all seems lost, Until they rise again. Their scarlet pennants trembling In the powerful forces ranged against them. Trembling, yet standing firm.
Frail and beautiful, their petals A flick of red on the painted air. Beautiful and frail, as are all who stand guard Against the nettled strength waiting its chance To crush that which is fragile.
Yet the nettle has always misjudged the poppy, Seeing only its frailty, Blind to its endurance. And this world is full of poppies Shining their bright and lovely defiance Into every place where darkness seeks dominion, Their crimson glory forever seeding the earth with hope.