Spirit of the Sprite

The day has too few a sunrise to explore
But the innumerous colours are counted
In ritual along the distant early skyline anyway. 
Beyond the principle of merely being, 
There's the principle of endless sight seeing
Fluttering on the delicate iridescent wingtip. 
Although all sights are born of intrinsic good, 
Reality requires a respite of recuperation
So the sprite may realign it's own energies. 

Wrapped in nature's most pastoral gifts
The sprite feasts on the bounty of true justice:
Nourished by the fundamentals of harmony
So it may be vibrant in passionate expression.
Though delicate to the lowly observing eye, 
The spirit of the sprite is bodaciously hardy,
Fearlessly inspired by the very air it breathes:
Time had tested itself, and failed to win battle
Against the ethereal protector of land and sea.

Breccia

A beautifully imperfect creation, 
Mottled in angst and frustration,
Capturing stray drops of sunlight
To warm you on the colder nights. 
The open evening air calls you
To gain that moment of solitude
Between the sediments of thought
Lined and calmed in melodies. 
You don't absorb or reflect
When bathing in the day's light, 
But refract polychromatic splendour
Through your fused shrapnel.
Each playing piece considered and
Placed within the web of fragments
Builds a mosaic of endurance:
A tenacious testament of truth, 
Boldly embraced through fractures
And acknowledged reality splinters. 
The weathered debris of survival
Formed you a formidable warrior
Encased in your own clast armour:
Sharply witted within awareness, 
Yet dynamically poised, prepared 
For metamorphic elevation.

Meretricious

She lacks symmetry.
In the curve of the looking glass
She’s obtuse,
Deliberate in naivety.
Her melody chants emptily
Constricting her harmony to base notes:
Rooted and diatonic
Yet obliquely tuned, off key.
She reflects with the clarity
That only the distorted can:
Off-balance and perfectly malformed.
In the eye of creation
She’s a falsified sequence
Sat between design and serendipity.
A constellation unmapped
For her rising suns are only set
And her moons are drowned
In the tides they made.
There’s no happenstance here,
To her, existence is a gift.
The opportunity to remould
The kinetic sand in which she swims
So it may smooth the surface
To form a meretricious shine.

The Girl That Could Dance

Outstretched legs that could reach the sky,
And nails long enough to lose an eye.
Curves small and soft, but defined and outlined,
Face tight, flawless, and often kind.
Pointed toes that swept deftly, precise,
And affection that came at a price,
Back tickled with golden hair,
A body most beautiful bare.
Elegant movements, jeté, plié,
Childish as very cliché.
Parents who raised their child right,
With the grace of a mythic sprite.

Shame everyone else had loved her too.

The Woman Wore Purple

​I had spent many hours with her,
​Both young and grown.
I had grown beside her kin,
With a mother who shared her blood.
 
She was reckless in my mother’s eyes,
Wild as the wind that she flew on.
A woman who lived by no law,
But by principle of her own heart.
 
She near always smiled at me,
And she laughed at my cynicisms.
We drank several nights away,
At the bar, or on the step of a shop door.
 
Like many young, I fled the nest,
Spread my wings for lands afar,
Leaving them all behind me,
But visiting with growing infrequency.
 
On my return there would be happy reunion,
Drinks, songs, smokes, smiles, laughs.
Gatherings of the now grown and their young,
Besides our elders now older once more.
 
But time did fly by quicker,
And 15 months seems to blink fast.
And soon I am beckoned back,
Returning to see her again.
 
My mother, as always,
Holding the hands of my family,
As a means to hold their souls, their bodies,
And their strength, in an upwards fashion.
 
Me, smiling through, as taught,
Showing that the living are not afraid.
I hold her hair 'twix my fingers,
And braid in flowers as we laugh.
 
I roll her smokes, before my own,
The legality of them questionable,
As she waves between here and there,
Jittery with fear of being wedded.
 
I paint over the hollowing skin,
Lighten her sunken eyes,
With a mixture of tones, pigments,
Creams and powders, brushes and sponges.
 
The clocks strikes and the camera clicks,
She grins as she is wheeled along,
I press the button as she makes vows,
Promises to be short lived and kept.
 
We drank, we smoked, we laughed,
I sang, for she couldn’t any longer,
I walked for her, towing the chair,
And navigated with care and fear.
 
Family gathered, united, strong again,
Smiling at the simple pictures I captured,
Wondering at the beauty of her,
Of her soul, of her love.
 
The woman wore purple,
As a bride, draped in purple and white,
As a mother, through waking night,
As my aunt, when hugging me tight.
 
The woman wore purple,
And when I saw her last, she wore it still.
Though I’ll never see her again,
I know the woman wears purple.

The Guitarist

He stands upon his stage, 
Guitar in hand. 
With no introduction, he plays. 

Fingers perform a double speed foxtrot, 
Teasing notes with finesse. 
Bouncing harmonics with flare, 
As he cascades the frets. 

He stops. pauses. Soaks in applause. 
He changes his tuning, 
He changes his presence, 
Encapsulating his audience softly. 

Without warning, a palm-muted strum
Races against the previous timing, 
Deep, trembling chords shake 
In between the rhythmic pattern, 
Tattooing their sound in the ears 
Of all those it teases. 

Then, without a strum, 
The notes stream down the mountain, 
Quenching the thirst of the dehydrated. 
The second hand joins, 
The current ebbs in a new direction, 
As the intensity builds. 

Serenity concludes this piece. 

He takes a seat upon the stage, 
Looks upon his worshippers, 
Momentarily. 
But then dedicates all attention, 
To the curved bust on his lap, 
Trails his fingers along her elongated neck, 
Tempting new notes from her strings. 

The double handed caress, 
Leaves her trembling melodies, 
Harmonies, scales and patterns. 
Her wooden form obliges, 
Becomes slave to her master, 
And ensnares all who hear her pleasure. 

The sound reaches its climax, 
Leaving a room full of onlookers, 
Satisfied, sated and desiring more. 

The guitarist bows, 
And says 'thank you '

Over Coffee

Come on in.
Tea? Coffee?
Ah, coffee, good choice.
I'll just top up the cafetiere.

Your pictures,
Serve you but little justice,
You're attraction,
Is in the eyes,
Not the red reflection.

Your mannerisms,
Most enticing,
And the level of ease,
The flow of conversation,
Magnificent.

Over a coffee,
I learned you,
Realized your significance,
The role you play,
In my small life.
The options you open,
The knowledge you offer.

Over a simple coffee,
We laughed,
Smiled together.
Enjoyed the bliss,
Of casual conversation

The Man and The Flower

Stumbling footsteps graced the earth,
Contorting the shrubbery under their weight,
Twisting the roots in their shallow graves.
All things ruined and changed,
Bar a single flower.
He plucks it from its sheath,
Revelling in the intricate swirls on its petals.
 
He falls back onto the sodden ground,
Marvelling in the phenomena before him.
The single intricate flower,
That survived his onslaught of steps.
 
‘I ought to place it by my ear’
He giggled to himself.
‘Or perhaps on my lapel’
He retorted to himself.
‘Either would be fashionable’
He replied. To himself.
 
He lay back on the bed of leaves,
Captured in the beauty of the petals.
Knowing full well he ought to stand,
Ought to remove himself from the floor,
But deciding it easier,
Simpler even,
To just lay there.
A single flower in his hand,
His worldly possession,
His only ownership.
The nurse pulls him from the floor,
Removing the toothpick from his fingers,
And leading him to the bed.
He feels the leaves fall from his back,
Leaving the wet outlines on his vest.
 
‘Our final concern for your father’
The doctor said to the woman before him,
‘Is his persistent hallucination…’

Love is a Fool

the mystery of the heart
something we all wish to understand
yet become baffled by
mumbling fools, the creation
beauty, the cause
a servitude of 'could haves'
a lifetime of 'would haves'
all meet to make a concoction
of weak kneed wide eyed
butterfly filled idiots
all stargazing the bountiful sky.