Stop and smell the flowers

Pretty, neat snowdrops,
the first ones of spring,
sweet petal petticoats;
of velvety skin,
heads bowed like Angels;
too weary to sing,
crispy green clothing prevails.

Leaves tinged with ice,
they shine Lunar white,
a delicate honey;
scented carpet of white,
small nodding flowers;
a major delight:
The first pretty snowdrops of spring.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

My release

On second thoughts, I'd better introduce this one. My mother gave me the topic of rain. Perhaps she was thinking of that light and fluffy 50's film 'Singing in the Rain.'

Instead, she got this:

My release

Dry as the air; parched is my tongue,
I wait for the day when the tropic rains come,
Sore is my skin; blistered by sun,
Wash me free

Wash me free from the confines of sinew and bone;
This carcass a place that my soul calls its home,
I wait for the day when the tropic rains come,
Let me breathe

Let me breathe in the fire, that's burning my throat,
As it cascades in rivulets and relieves me of hope,
I wait for the day when the tropic rains come,
Hear my screams

Hear my screams for the rainfall; a monsoon awake,
With the storm now approaching I feel myself shake,
This is the day when the tropic rains come,
I am free

Free from the evils of what they call life,
Purged from my vessel; like a moth to the light,
The tropic rains stop once they sense my delight:
My release

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

21st Century Living

A wide, wooden table is burgeoning with treats,
Stood looking through the window is a girl that never eats

Not through a disorder, or mysterious disease,
But pure and simple poverty, over sick and evil greed

With distended gut that's plain to see, all look; but walk on by,
As their stares become aversion, she begins to cry

Face resting on the window, bare-feet turning in to ice,
A sister stands forgotten, in the cruel class divide

She didn't ask, but doesn't moan - for this simply is her life,
But wish-oh-wish upon a star, she does night after night

Oily rags which drape her bones, are threadbare; non-distinct,
When one fine and kindred gentleman - in pity - takes her in

She feasts upon the delights; as munificent his hand,
Now saved from ethereal, she's a daughter of the land

But what of the forgotten; those suffering this plight?
Well, they too stare through those windows. And barely just survive.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

Sixty seconds

I'm on a roll tonight! I'm going to pretend that this one just 'happened' and not that I have sat plugging away for hours to get post 14 on here. Damn superstitions. Consequently, I fear this could be a work-in-progress.


Sixty seconds

If forever lasts only a minute,
How would you use your time?
Would you scream from your lungs of injustice,
Or point out the stars in the sky?

If forever lasts only a minute,
Then a heartbeat's a year too late,
Would you grab every chance - when presented,
Or leave your existence to fate?

If forever lasts only a minute,
Sixty seconds of golden-sand time,
Would you speak with the grace of an Angel,
Or stand by Lucifers side?

If forever lasts only a minute,
Are you sleeping or are you awake?
Do you sing to your child of atrocities,
Or hug them and make them feel safe?

If forever lasts only a minute,
Would you seek to exact an eye?
Are those tears of regret for your choices,
Or representing your saline delight?

If forever lasts only a minute,
Do you think that you'd still chase your dreams?
What if that meant an extension,
Or maybe a total reprieve?

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards (2010)

Shiver me timbers!

The colour of money shows error-of-ways,
Though dazzling green it spits emerald rage,
A filthy obsession which leads to the grave,
X marks the spot….

Buried is treasure; off Sullivan’s Cove,
Surrounded by pirates and old, rusty bones,
There’s a fight for the map; upon which it shows,
X marks the spot.

Old Long-John himself – stands in felt tricorne hat,
And squints with the eye that’s not hidden by patch,
With a swashing of cutlass he signals attack,
X marks the spot.

Flagon’s sent flying, high into the air,
Monkeys and parrots are screaming despair,
Canons are firing; Sea dogs beware,
X marks the spot.

Letters of Marque lead to walking the plank,
Doubloons, gems and gold in a new pirate hand,
‘Avast ye me hearties’ – old John sails clear of land,
X marked the spot.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

Culture Capital

Now, if you know me, you'll know this is top of my 'inspiring places I must visit' list.

Culture Capital

Dust motes disturbed on the wave of the heat,
Competing with lemon scent ever-so-sweet,
As the glare of the sun cracks the ground which it meets,
In the eye of the Artisan's son

Soft-staccato crickets strike up a beat,
Near the seats in the shade of the parasolled streets,
A relaxing haven; idyllic retreat,
It's the heart of Renaissance's love

Abundance of flora so close within reach,
Vibrates with the bell-chime; in history steeped,
Atmosphere loaded of romance so deep,
Around statues the Angels call home

From the sprinkling stars which tumble in flight,
Against deep-vivid purple in the dead heat of night,
Landing on pillars lit oh-so-bright,
Stands the famed Colosseum of Rome.


(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2010

The breeze

Inspiration thanks for this one goes to Denise. Muchos gracios :)

The breeze

Foaming saltwater wavelets deliver to the shore,
A warm and rolling sweet-wind, magically born

She whips against the rock face, spurred on by the spray;
Crescendo's up on to the land to greet the break of day

Though gentle is her warm touch and gathering a pace,
I wave goodbye with sunkissed hand as she coolly twists away

She stokes up dusty shrub land and causes trees to sway;
Acquaints herself with metal birds and flowers just the same

Passengers permitted: Sound, Scent or Taste,
And powder puff seeds from dandelion clocks compete in natures race

When halted at the crossroad, a decision she should make;
To tunnel on in to a gale, or find a resting place.


(c) copyright Jane Edwards 2010