GingerBe Poetry (10)

A crow,
black's darkest hue,
jet wings aflame with night,
obsidian and ebony,
lit, here.

My lover's eyes are crossed, wave to and fro,
His nose, an ogre's ridge, much to the fore,
I send him out each day and hope he'll go
And not come back 'till this lifetime is o'er.
His skin is dire and pitted like a grid,
Wild hair all matted as a rabid dog,
Great forehead huge, yet pea-sized in the id
And voice that would offend a deafened frog.
To his ablutions he won't give a fig.
He reeks of cat's pee and of fouled roe, fried.
His fingernails would be just cause to dig,
Yes, on his stinking clothes fleas catch a ride!
Yet forged in his intent to spare the rod,
A caring heart, that plain, was wrought of God

Leap to Freedom


At yelping speed she travelled
across an emerald lawn,
pursued by gnarling nightmares
as the darkness nipped the dawn.

Her ears, amber triangles,
bush glittering crystal dew,
body sleek with rivulets,
glowed red with exhaustion's hue.

Her heart palpating bass drums
and panting loud, fit to burst,
'glimpsed a shadow by the gate,
Her escape route surely cursed.

A lolloping great mastiff
of the Herculean type
roused apathetic eyelids
to investigate the hype.

No options left, the vixen
hugged the ground, then made a leap
to clear canine, and gate, and
safely saunter home to sleep.

Sparkling, long, and flowing soft, and shimmering through a comb,
A little hand ,with love,caressed each strand and knew a home.
Her eyes alight with awe to see the splendour falling there
in the magic that was moonbeams, that was grandma's silver hair.

A web of love she wove in it when plaiting it each day
and trapped the little heart that had no other place to stay.
Grandma lent her patience to the comfort of the child
and just let the little fingers roam about at eventide.

Then when the mane of moonbeams had been prettied for the night,
the child would hold that rope that led her safely to the light
of a heart that filled to bursting, and a safety so rare,
in a world that was upended, save for touching grandma's hair.

The years flew past, as swifts in flight to greet a summer's day.
The little child grew up and left the nest to fly away
to do great deeds of courage, and to plant some seeds of care,
letting other little fingers weave their patterns in her hair,

just like grandma, now long gone , had done so many years ago,
she helped them braid their patterns, and encouraged them to grow
to be full and loving people, and to laugh and share and play.
So the lesson of her grandma's mane of moonbeams lives today.

They strayed below the greening hills to love. He'd show her how,
When breezes raised her tumbling hair and kissed her fevered brow,
to rise above and float the larks suspended in the air
who'd sing the tune of wakening upon the lady fair.


They warbled tunes of ancient things that could not stay her feet
upon the meadow. Feathered wings the right percussion beat.
She danced a pathway to the place whereon he was to lie
with her, there slide himself upon her body, 'till they'd cry.


He watched, enchanted, as the wind took up his favoured place,
Soft kissing breaths upon her skin blushed bright her shy young face.
The sun burst cloud. Its brilliant hue glass-stained her eyes, to flame
the rivers bubbling in her veins, Ignite her pliant frame.

Dried grasses scratched their love lines on her legs. As she spun round
shed scattered seeds upon her thighs. Her laugh the only sound
above the rustling of the leaves, where bowing trees swayed near
to catch and brush her wind-frilled skirts, and whisper in her ear.


Now shaken with the wonder of her ecstasy, she lay
upon the flowers, trembling still, and pondered their display.
She sprawled now cooling limbs, then to restore a measured calm
raised limp lids. Seeing him still there she lifted outstretched palm.


The beauty of her graceless gait aquiver, filled his eyes,
near burst his heart asunder as he helped his love to rise
all glowing still. She whispered low, "pure beauty led the way".
He, smiling, acquiesced, conceding nature her foreplay....

Bird Table ... Haiku

Icy lacy frost
blankets Holly bush and tree,
Graces berry feast.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sky Art ... Haiku

Crimson wisps blood-stain
azure's fading sky to paint
dusk's art at sunset.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Tall Order ... Haiku

Legs all sprawled askew.
Yards of neck enmeshed in thorn.
Delicate giraffe.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Despair ... Senryu

Anguish, held too long.
Wracking sobs and flowing tears.
Eyes implore. Arms fall.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Today ... Senryu

Baby born today.
Text said: "Girl, black hair. All well!"
Niece for me to love.

Sky's lilac edge met turquoise sea
where softened mists of splendour fled
to draw raw eyes from stoney-pitched
Knockalla's curves, to fanad Head.

The wounded spirit, shipwrecked, lost
to all but overflowing pain
and succor, found this blessed coast
and sought to find a home again.

Wild birds screeched out their joy
in updraft ecstacy
As hot air's forced momentum
made them soar.
They stopped my breath as
mother nature took me
on my long awaited journey to her door.

The whoosh and slap, the hiss and lash
of rocks, sea-licked and loved, undressed
by ocean, soft as liquid silk,
waves dancing round as they caressed

Soft nestled dunes with shadowed cleft,
enmeshed like breasts all proudly thrust
and mated with the bearded bent's
raw shifting greenery of trust.

While birds screeched out their
joy in updraft ecstacy,
as hot air's forced momentum
swept them free,
Then I screamed too, as
mother nature held me
in her many clustered bosoms
by the sea.....

*W*hen children are born it's a wonderous thing.
*H*earing it's cry opens mothering love.
*E*very new heartbeat reminds us of spring.
*N*ew life, new hope from creator above.

*A*nyone being there around this place

*C*herishes memories, stores more to last.
*H*oarding the smile of an innocent face,
*I*nter-relating with memories past.
*L*earning to know a wind-grin from a smile
*D*eepens the contact and makes us feel great.

*I*n these deep moments we all have a while
*S*miling and cooing to try and translate.

*B*ut all the laughter and joy that we know
*O*pens in us 'cause a child made it so.
*R*ight at the start when it made our heart sing,
*N*obody questioned this feeling of love

*I*f we looked closer it would make our heads ring
*T*o know what a treasure we've got from above.

*I*n wiser moments, that sweet little face
*S*orts our soul-searching, erases our past.

*A*ll of our failings will go to a place,

*M*ended by one little smile that is vast.
*I*n one split second they cure us of bile,
*R*ages are buried and anger can wait.
*A*fter a while we just echo that smile,
*C*ured and forgetting all thought that was hate.
*L*et us give thanks for this wonder, and know
*E*very miracle child helps us grow.

The sky, with eyebrows lifted, softly sighed
It's little puffs of mist above my head.
To chide me for the nonsense that I cried,
The sky, with eyebrows lifted, softly sighed.
My shame in wisdom that I'd cast aside
Made sunset's echo blush a crimson red.
The sky, with eyebrows lifted, softly sighed
It's little puffs of mist above my head.

To live, we have to see ourselves as good,
So brain takes over, saying,"I am great".
Our mind's-eye feeds the ego, sets the mood
To keep it self-sustaining, full of hate.

We truly hate each person not like "me"
And think of them a lesser sort of soul
Because they have not had our pain, you see.
They're not religious, have not been made "whole".

They do not love our saviour, are not "saved".
Their skin is not the colour of bleached kale.
Look at their politics, or how they've raved,
Or got what they are wearing in a sale.

He takes hard drugs, and she is much too fat.
They give their kids away to social care.
Still hearing mirror tell us " I'm all that"
We leave our social circle almost bare.

How 'bout the alcoholics that abuse,
Or ailing pro's who die out in the night?
We turn our backs and blindly just accuse
Drug-ridden kids who cannot help their plight.

The great unwashed, the posh, the rich, the dead,
We still come up with other titles, names,
While ego still plays "sicko" in our head
And makes us think we're perfect, plays more games.

Then what of all the ones that are depressed?
We wouldn't let ourselves get such as they.
The hypochondriacs, the ones repressed?
We wish the world would make them go away.

For we are perfect in our little world.
Our ego tells us that it must be thus.
How dare we leave our thoughts of hate unfurled
To keep us from what really defines us.

Compassion, smiles and love are all that count
When we seek to account for who we are.
To give and not to take in large amount
Gives purpose, helps make love instead of war.

It's not about religion, votes or "right",
Nor yet to have our neighbours praise our deeds.
It's all about reflecting to our sight
What future generations sow as seeds...