Not Hers

don’t let all i do be about her
we all have a past,
it’s passed

i know how rejection feels
and the pangs of an unhealed wound
and a skin still sorely scarred

now you prick your finger on nothing
the thorns in the roses are gone
i cut them away, with precision

my thoughts are wrapped up in you
spilling onto the page
hidden in hundreds of words

don’t let her be the ghost
that walks through our rooms
shattering dreams

the vase in the house is full
with flowers of many seasons
picked and arranged for you

she was only a daisy,
crushed under your foot,
never a full blown rose


Baking Bread

knowing you were coming home tonight
i resolved to bake you bread
and fill the house with warmth

i gathered driftwood from the beach
i rose at dawn to light the fire
so the dough could rise

i went down to the cellar
to find a fine red wine
i stumbled on the stair

when i came back the fire was out
the fire beside the stove collapsed
it needed swift repair

by the time i mended it
my hair was full of soot
i had to take a shower

i went out to the market next
i bought the finest cheese
and olives black and green

time was growing short by now
i sank my hand into the bowl
almost in despair

i slammed it on the board
i kneeded it, i pummelled it
and left it there to rest

i went out to the beach again
to calm my savage breast

a good bread must be blessed

the kitchen is a peaceful place
when baking scents the room

good bread is earthly grace

my mind filled with the thought of you
i conjured up your face

good bread is an embrace

returning through the garden
i picked one summer rose
to set beside your place

when you came the bread was there
with olives, yellow cheese and wine
mixed with salt sea air

blessed with love and welcome
and smiles to greet you home

good bread is like a poem

The Wisdom of Bees

her heart is so tender
a delicate pink
with a deeper rose tinge
where the petals unfold
there is fire in the centre
but the bud on the outside is white
she has her thorns too
I am glad of that
she wont be harmed

how can i not love
a heart that’s like that?
it’s a flower
it’s a rose
the rose that entwines
winding its way over my walls

flowers grow far better unpicked
and the wisdom of bees
is that they know the value of honey
while they thirst for the nectar within

Tree of Hope

The bird baths all are cracked
by winters biting frosts.
I heard the blackbirds song,
a memory of water,
fluid in the air.
It seemed a sad reflection
of a sorry state of health.
The coldest days were long.
Everything seemed lost.
The paths were overgrown
with plants all running wild,
strangling and tangling
the roses, overblown,
spoiled by slow neglect,
in a garden once so loved.

Summer brought destruction,
smothering, spreading, fast.
A time of choice had come,
to recover all its glory
or let it go at last.
I would not be daunted.
The days were flying past.

All had been so lovely
in lazy days before,
those days so softly haunted
with thoughts of gardeners gone.
In sad remembrance of them
I set about the work.
I cleared the well worn paths,
discovered them anew.
Where the brambles barred me
I tirelessly pushed through.
Putting down my tools
I turned to go inside
to take a well earned rest.

It was then I saw the gift.
The garden had been blessed.
In a place I would have chosen,
beside a golden rose,
a single seed had fallen
planted by a bird.
A sign of new beginnings.
changing with the seasons,
uplifting tender leaves
to a future that’s begun.

Now in this sheltered garden
there grows a graceful Birch.
The silver of the winter
reaches for the sun.

The Elfin Artist

The Elfin Artist from The Elfin Artist and Other Poems, 1920 ~ WONDERFUL poem!!!!!!!!! how I wish I wrote it – but it’s by Alfred Noyes

In a glade of an elfin forest
When Sussex was Eden-new,
I came on an elvish painter
And watched as his picture grew,
A harebell nodded beside him.
He dipt his brush in the dew.

And it might be the wild thyme round him
That shone in the dark strange ring;
But his brushes were bees’ antennae,
His knife was a wasp’s blue sting;
And his gorgeous exquisite palette
Was a butterfly’s fan-shaped wing.

And he mingled its powdery colours,
And painted the lights that pass,
On a delicate cobweb canvas
That gleamed like a magic glass,
And bloomed like a banner of elf-land,
Between two stalks of grass;

Till it shone like an angel’s feather
With sky-born opal and rose,
And gold from the foot of the rainbow,
And colours that no man knows;
And I laughed in the sweet May weather,
Because of the themes he chose.

For he painted the things that matter,
The tints that we all pass by,
Like the little blue wreaths of incense
That the wild thyme breathes to the sky;
Or the first white bud of the hawthorn,
And the light in a blackbird’s eye;

And the shadows on soft white cloud-peaks
That carolling skylarks throw,–
Dark dots on the slumbering splendours
That under the wild wings flow,
Wee shadows like violets trembling
On the unseen breasts of snow;

With petals too lovely for colour
That shake to the rapturous wings,
And grow as the bird draws near them,
And die as he mounts and sings,–
Ah, only those exquisite brushes
Could paint these marvellous things.

The Red Rose and the White

My lover gave me a rose
It meant a lot to me
She placed it amongst my poems
Where it could simply be

My lover gave me a rose
I gave her all I had, gladly.
Her rose was a heart-felt gift.
Now I mark its absence sadly.

My lover gave me a rose.
It bloomed so strong and red
When she left she took it
Stale perfume remains in my head

My lover gave me a rose.
Now, in my heart, it’s a knife
It’s blade is the red of blood
But it will not take my life

My lover gave me a rose
And a rose is a lovely flower
As a symbol of love its complete
The thorns also have power

If I am asked to choose a rose
I would choose the one that is white
The rose of gentle love and hope
The one you can see in the night

The white rose is given in friendship
With a true and faithful heart
It does not burn with passion
Or vanish when lovers depart

The white rose grows wild at the wayside
Untended, uncared for yet strong
Touched by pink at its tender centre
Couched on a breeze and a birdsong

I don’t need to bind it or cut it
I love the white rose
It shines with compassion
It’s the fairest flower that grows

The Carer

she slept with the dog when it was sick

providing warmth and constant care

she rescues birds and creatures lost

is kind in every thought and deed

cherished her mother to the end

gives and doesn’t count the cost

if heavens reward on earth was given

and all the world was fair and just

she’d be blessed and crowned in glory

a special rose would bear her name

but such grace is always silent

and books will never tell her tale






The Rose Revives

Sorrow comes and goes,

full-blown rose and petals falling,

sadness passes with morning

the dawning of a bud


A rose that opens

perfumes and enlightens

the air and the space it habituates,

a joy when it arrives,


Even when watered by tears

deep in its heart there is nectar

to gather and treasure,

the returning life of the rose,



The Queen of the Greenwood (a Corona)

i sit by the fire in the woodland
all is peace, gentle, quiet, dear,
yet my heart rises to my throat
rises like a spring, a songbird
wings beating, bursting
the well is deep, the moment fleeting
my pulse like water singing
drumming, humming
all fades away on the breeze
even as its golden light glows
shining out in the darkness
known, yet unknown.

home is her, and now.
it comes, it goes, the rose

it comes, it goes, the rose
the wild rose of the woodland
i run, trying to reach it
eagerness grasps only thorns
no perfume, no tender pink heart
better admired where it grows
soft petals shine out in the dark
dark trees loom all around
lost or found it blooms there
where is she in all i seek
she who holds the rose
why does she always leave

turning always to look back at me
she comes, she goes, holding the rose

she comes, she goes, holding the rose
i saw her up on the green hill
weaving in and out of the dance
i bow to her and take her hand
spin her, never win her
that wild, unruly, so gentle glance
as she turns and runs away
always looking back at me
always a footfall further
she haunts me still, never stays
she of the hill and the greenwood
where the paths all lead inward

deeper and ever deeper
into the wood i travel, willingly

into the wood i travel, willingly
this forest so wide and vast
these paths turn on fortunes wheel
darkness and light
all things future, all things past
shadows and clearings
silence and voices
a harp song on the wind
flute and owl hoot
the flash of a birds wing
in the night
i follow the ravens flight

i follow the Raven to the Tower
the gate is locked and barred

the gate is locked and barred
all is empty here
a hollow echo from before
i will not venture in
i stand and feel no fear
the Tower crumbles all to dust
i lay down my ancient sword
my armour turns to rust
my horse is faithful still
i trust to him and the Raven
i will follow his path
it is my own at last

all travellers have a quest
we ride on, finding the way

we ride on to once upon a time
over the hills and far away
where all paths twist back on themselves
always to the greenwood
the distant rainbows end
the treasure at its heart
the place where the rose unfolds
i dream amongst the trees
unafraid of any foe
guarded by a wall of thorns
protected in her circling arms
where all my dreams come true

i will travel on with her
wherever she may go

wherever she goes i will go
i follow in the dance
my pulse like water singing
she of the hill and the greenwood
queen of the shadows and clearings
my armour gleams again
i will be her hero
until my breath gives out
guarded by twisted paths
we rest in peace, with the rose
over the hills and far away
where time will never end



a Corona is a series of sonnets strung together by the repetition of a line