New paintings and regular art updates.
She sat at the top of the stairs
Sitting proud on the ledge,
Peeking out
From behind the foliage,
Staring at me.
She was loving and gentle.
Liked the sun,
Bathed in light.
Gemma was my best friend.
And I forgot! I don’t know if it’s the same day every year. Anyway I’ve written a little poem in its honour. The best Oatcake poem I ever read was by the artist Arthur Berry. Look it up if you can.
Oatcakes are a pancakes cousin,
designed for savoury
not sweet.
Try with cheese and tomato,
can be eaten cold,
but I prefer heat.
Chilli sauce would add a tickle,
beetroot would be neat.
Oatcakes are a breakfast tipple,
with a good strong cup of tea.
Lunch you find with salad topping
grated cheese and pickle too.
Tea for two an Oatcake feasting,
Maybe sweet with cream or jam.
Versatile the little Oatcake,
Made with simple love you see,
Stoke-on-Trents tortilla, tasty.
Makes a meal for you and me
Beautiful fox
Red furred wonder,
Sneaky or intelligent,
Fantastic Mr?
Hunted for centuries
By red coated riders
Chased with hounds
For “sport”
Persecuted for being
A fox.
What do you see?
Planets and comets?
Spiralling out of control?
Or a vegetable sliced through?
A seed pod?
Peas in a pot?
A strange roulette wheel?
Abstract art?
Cheerleader pom poms?
Or just random noise?
Sometimes I want to go home.
Not this house, home,
But the one I grew up in.
The family home and hearth.
The place I knew so well
It’s nooks and crannys
The garden and the tree I climbed.
The old swing and the rockery.
Doors I shut forty years ago
Creak open in my mind.
I wish I could shut my eyes and go.
See our old pets, the roses by the back door.
Dad’s motorbike, mom’s hair in rollers.
Little memories make me homesick.
I would drive there now at 2am
But a new family live there.
I feel lost.
I wish…
I miss
Home.
Suddenly, snow is on his head,
frost is in his hair.
Life is here still, strong and steady
but time has sprinkled white, dead hair into the brown.
Salt and pepper, they say.
Distinguished temples silvered by age.
No wish for dyes to cover it,
no need to hide it.
Only a realisation that winter is on its way.
The spark of life
Shocked through its body
Sparks gleamed in its eyes
Blue flame shot from its fingers and toes.
Electricity crackled in its ears.
As the power lever swung upwards
The body slowly rose.
Bending jerkily at its waist,
Then it swivelled
Feet sizzling as they touched
The metal floor
The Poetry Monster was born.
Old goat guarding a wild flower garden
High up on the Welsh mountain.
Up on the Great Orme
In the sunshine.
Old Green copper goat
Verdigris coat.
Ready to butt the unwary
Frozen on top of curved copper.
Your sunny temperament
Your ruminating smile,
Old goat stay on your plinth
Do not come down and chase me.
You know I like creating these pictures by putting usually 4 duplicated photos together so you get a fantastic or puzzling image floating in the middle of a sky.
Flying mountains
Fiery roof,
Limestone ufo,
Floating in the seat.
Mist and shadow
Stone built wall
Mountain landscape
Sky reflected on sea.
Sitting on the world
Held down by gravity
Like a fly pinned
To a windscreen
Travelling through space
At thousands of miles an hour
Thank goodness we can’t fall off.
Mallaband-Brown