Home is where the heart is...

                                              

Pack my life in a suitcase,

like one I had as a child,

with brown cardboard corners

rubbed grey and tin handle rattling

as it lollops side to side

between silver flip-clips

which open to display

a retro paper lining...

In first, goes a layer of war-torn sounds

to cower in corners.

Cover them with school uniforms

and scatter primrose memories

of picnics in the woods.

Layer paintings from college

with tears from teen dramas, until

confetti and a wedding veil shroud them

in mists of time, and baby powder scent

sends kisses and cuddles whirling

in ever growing spirals towards adulthood.

Tissue paper days of work and ageing,

of living, of loving, of life itself,

sandwich together as I press down

the lid to preserve my memories.

This is a somewhat off-piste offering for 

P&SU #96 Friday Writing's subject of 'Home', with apologies to anyone who happened to read it before - nearly ten years ago - under the title 'Suitcase' on my Alias Jinksy blog. :-)

Time Out Of Time

Time

is elastic;

it stretches as you try

to create another poem,

until words become lost in translation

and day-dreams take over the helm

to steer free-floating thoughts

spiralling through

time.

Cogs and wheels designed to fit together

seek a close harmony; any discord, jars.

Unrehearsed, it spins them out of kilter, 

and latent melodies remain unplayed

once life's gramophone-needle is static.

The interwoven records of our lives

grind to a halt. We can only stand by,

watch Catherine-wheel days spin out of control,

then spark, fizz, fade into obscurity.

Time is a certain victor in this race 

against relentless turning of both wheels

of life and fortune, twin brothers-in-arms.

All thoughts engendered by P&SU Friday Writings #95

Storm

I used a detail from an Andrew Wyeth's painting entitled "Squall" to create this rendition, and the words followed after...

There was none of the usual crisp cleanliness about the moonlight. It entered the coast-guard's cottage in the way that warm breath becomes visible on a cold night; a presence which comes from nowhere, hovers in the air like phosphorescence for a moment, before it disperses and lets the blackness rule...

Outside, rising winds chased clouds which raced from their grasp like naughty children evading bed time. But there was no fun attached to their game.  Instead, a sense of foreboding was tangible in the air that night.

See more stormy offerings at Friday Writings

Angel Dreams Revisited

Adrift in dreams, imagination whirls
and lilac angels' wings fly close at hand.
The flower scented air begins to swirl
and lulls us further. We can understand
concepts which, in daytime, make no sense.
For night time loosens bonds of black or white,
sends technicolour shades in recompense
to meld all boundaries of wrong, or right.

When waters of emotion lap the shores

of self expression, artists utilise 

that wave-swell of power, of creation; 

they may focus on their craft without pause.      

Visions refreshed in Dream Time are allies 

in the fight to free imagination.

Thanks to P&SU Friday Writings