When thoughts come

Certainly

on days like these

I feel

like  pressing  my nose against the sky

to smell the crayons

God chose,

to colour it in.

Love,

never carved in stone

it's all in the  day to day ~

the sound of someone mowing the lawn on Sunday

and

aromas of our new coffee machine kicking in to life.

Photos

old and new

and fresh bread on our ancient rustic kitchen table.

Honey, dripping from a much loved spoon.

Wishing for glorious summers

days to lie on red gingham blankets

waiting for the stars to come to us.

Certainly,

on these days.

Gray days

It's easy to grow weary of

the gray days.

Constant raindrops on the window panes.

Then the heart remembers

what life would be without it.

No fresh water to drink,

to wash with.

No green fields full of wildflowers

just arid,

barren land.

Listen then to the elements.

Whatever they bring.

The melodies of the wind

singing with the rain.

A lonely cry of a seagull

flying over the

restless sea.

Think on

( I tell my heart )

of the beauty all around.

When days like this mean hot,

steaming cups of

cinnamon tea,

comfy blankets and  a good book.

Gray days, all.

The bluebell wood at twilight

When the green comes again

it's like the start of a new poem.

Beautifully written on the finest of papers.

The bluebell wood walks silently into our waiting hearts

as if she never left.

Far away,

like a longed for lover,

the sea.

With the coming and going of the tides,

a relentless pulling of the moon.

These days slip by

living in the silent streets of suburbia ,

lives behind windows

that I know nothing of.

However this earth will bring again

the wildflower fields

the hum of the hummingbird

and the ancient cry of the gull.

Until then,

we rest.

We dream.

We do.


Todays photo shamelessly * yoinked * From my friend Kit.

This post was inspired by her photo here.

When the humming bird sings

Oh the words.

Sometimes I write them and just delete

because some days

a blog is not for the real world, but the poetic one

that lives in my head 24/7.

A world with no sharp edges.

The songs of the Carpenters on repeat.

I never tire of Karen's voice.

Ever.

Nostalgia,

such a nice word.

Gentleness.

That's another.

Today should be filled with both,

with beauty.

The rabbit in the moon watching over us all.

Because there is beauty

in the foggy mornings before it lifts

and the sun rises.

A slow softness to take away the sharp edges.

Holding your face tenderly in my hands

as I kiss you

turning this day into a symphony of colour and songs

The angel of the neon lights

It's late.

I'm looking out of the attic window

at the neon lights

on the cars as they drive

into the night.

On my music player I'm listening to a song called sister song.

It's evoking such bitter sweet memories in my heart

I ache a little.

Looking out the window it's as if the cars

are driving in slow motion

and the night is happy with that.

The songs of Perfume Genius are gentle.

The lead singer reminds me of Neil Young in the early days;

and this makes me think of the 60's, the 70's.

Each decade , that seemed to go by like a minute ago.

What is this life?

When on a Saturday night your mind

 is filled with images of

camper vans,

and girls with garlands of flowers in their hair?

I could list the pictures.

Would you want that?

Perhaps not.

April.

Here I am again.

Looking out

at the blinking neon lights

The silver sky

The sky looks heavy.

Laden with waiting snow.

Like a woman about to give birth.

I love these frozen,

silent days.

It's so easy to wonder

when sitting quiet~

on these silver  Sunday afternoons.

When  songs of Mumford and sons come

drifting in from the kitchen and soak into my bones.

Wordlessly I walk to the kitchen window

and look out at the little hills.

Covered in their comfort blanket of glistening stars.

Thinking, always thinking.

This time of year, daffodils, eggs, bunnies.

Most of all , the stone that rolled away.

Hearts. bursting into bloom.

All under the  silver sky.

Waiting to be born.

When Angels call

Wrapping my self in clouds

Happy clouds ~

from where the angels call.

Days slipping into night,

some filled with glistening snowflakes

and then ,

baby powder blue skies.

In my hands a string of pearls lie silent.

I touch the beads, one by one

each a memory of a place,

a time.

In each heart ( I think )

lies a secret,

hidden garden

where,

among the creased corners we call life

lie lovely things.

I go there ~

every day.

To listen when the Angels call.