If these stupid rhymes keep calling me
I’ll never find my bed
But how could I be sleeping
With her stuck up in my head

I’d wait for her for hours
And watch her break my all
I look back and I know it’s true
I never meant to fall

My dreams are running rampant
And my heart is in my throat
Somehow she doesn’t see it
Even with the words I wrote

I sneak ‘round library corners
And just to hold her hand
I’d pick my garden flowers
And I’d tear apart the band

regaling in a sunshower
wetness
dripping
from petals flush

a small blush

she,
once of dreams only,
gushes
love's mystique
au natural

OIL PAINTING

Oozing through the tube the gaudy paint
splotches, the canvas
widening, floating across the sheet of white
it stops, as the brush sweeps its gooey mass
in a big circular form,
the thickness varying the depth of colour,
it meets another splotch of contrasting colour,

they meld, combine and race round
making a scratching sound
that has a sense of urgency and splash,
to produce another amalgamate of pigment,
feathered in to the structure of the cloth.

Surreal and vast, the vision here before me
A landscape harbouring a double will
that seeks a freedom mixing sadness, glee
portrayed and painted with artistic skill

Across abundant, waving ears of green
(impressing, somehow, somewhat too much glow
as if to draw attention from the scene
to hide where, under arbours, secrets grow)

as daisies lazily soak up the sun
and marigolds reflect its amber light
the shadows are obscure and gloomy, dun
the flowers far too incandescent, white