Nothing's in its place

Sometimes, when my eyes sting,
I see most clearly
When shadows shift and bring the day,
My choices,
lit in gloried sunshine,
But why is nothing in its place?
The stars were charted,
(childhood wisdom)
By certain times;
specific dates,
My outcome,
plotted; predetermined,
So why is nothing in its place?
Fulfilment's just around the corner,
I'm just one step away from grace,
My checklist,
blank;
to be filled in,
And that's why nothing's in its place.


(c) copyright Jane Edwards 2011

The Ghost Trees

I came across this interesting Daily Mail article yesterday: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1370181/Millions-spiders-crawled-trees-creepy-effect-Pakistan-floods.html

It describes a phenomenon I've never seen before, and even though slightly freaky (I would not like to be sat under that tree) it amazed me and inspired the following words. But, however inspiring, I recognise that my inspiration is as a result of some of the worst floods in eighty years and serves a timely reminder (at the end of climate week) that any change I can make which reduces the impact I have on the environment is worthwhile.

The ghost trees

Grey candy stands, resolute;
a webbed-ode
to survival. Spun-salvation,
pulsing...
breathing...
contracting, with life.
Leaves, host to a silken jacket
- warmed against standing water –
chilling,
to the eye. Vibrations;
a silent knell to the perpetrators
of disease. Synchronised spinnerets
dancing,
to bring life, to
The Ghost Trees.

(c) Poem copyright, Jane Edwards 2011

The dancer

For some reason (maybe watching one too many BBC adaptations over recent months) I have early 1900's Tess of the D'urberville-esque characters tootling around in my head. Maybe it's the simplicity of 20th century life I crave, maybe it's just subliminal influencing... Either way, give them a warm welcome :)

The dancer

Somewhere in-between those strings
and dancing fingers,
that melody was made;
as she moved slowly – in his shadow –
he closed his eyes and played.
Dressed in lace, and floating cotton,
she drummed bare feet upon the glades;
her rhythmic, warm and kindly welcome,
to the dusk at end of day.
But when his loving tune of tribute
sends dehydrated tears along her face,
then he hums,
a thousand heart-string memories,
and remembers dancing days.


(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2011

Synthetic synthesis

Yoohoo... I'm back!

This latest offering has been rattling around in my head since November. It started out as lines 5 & 6 and remained that way until today. Not frustrating in the slightest! Enjoy :)


Synthetic synthesis

Fibre-optic strands of blonde,
ribbon tied and helix-long,
dust-pink cheeks of innocence,
and velveteen unease.
Whispers unconditional,
of love, and sugared vitriol,
with petals blue, her blood runs cold;
and smile contrived; diseased.
Cardice stem of shattered green,
on scattered silk looks so obscene,
a reflection’s rarely what it seems:
my perfect English Rose.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2011