Respect for the roses

Quite often when I sit and write, I don't know where my inspiration comes from. This latest one however follows the trend I seem to be developing for linking life, nature and the environment. I hope you enjoy.


Respect for the roses

When she speaks, petals burst from her
to fill the air;
Raspberry wisps that curl and float,
and with a shower of softness, rest
upon those dear to her.
Her hums help to shake the cloud
in to a blanket of delicate armour
that crisps, and protects
when exposed to sun. Every perfumed breath
an encouragement –
to step out of the shadow,
and dodge the thorns.
As they grow and shed the brittle flakes
of love, the shards – that are ground into dust
under their feet – nourish the buds that now spring from them,
and heaps delight
unto the Rose that borne them.


(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2011

Sewn

As usual, anything that catches my eye usually inspires me to write… Though I have gone off on a tiny little tangent!


Sewn

We each have a ragdoll;
a tiny little clone,
patched from our experiences,
stitched with colours of our hopes.

Mine is sitting quietly on a dusty, comfy chair,
between pink ink and paper,
with eyes of blue glass-buttons
and cherry-yarn bunched hair.

My seams are yet unfinished,
large stuffing-tufts on show,
as for little bows of happiness –
they wait patiently in row.

Some stitches are imperfect,
some material threadbare,
my fabric skin not peppered near-enough
with yellow darned here or there.

So, if your doll is tinged with purple,
or a little bluish-green,
leave your model in the sun
and fade until unseen.

(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2011

Still

Still

I carry it with me.
It’s dog-eared and tea stained, but always with me.
Though, it’s faded by sun as I cannot bear for it to be starved of light;
As you.
The muted colours still dance on the paper and kindle its silhouette into my eyes;
As you, in life.
When some days it stays hidden in the shadows, I know it’s there; scratching around with crumbs and an old button for company in the confines of my purse.
Those are the days I’m most sad.
When remiss, I lose the chance to say ‘Hello’, and find only my regret at 'Goodbye'.
That’s when I lose it again.
And find paper kisses no longer revive its breath;
As you.
It’s still with me, until I can bear to share it with others, in a frame on the hearth;
As we did, in life:
For the ones we loved.


(c) Copyright Jane Edwards 2011

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