Best Belying Poems

I was seventeen, had one year left of high school and a boyfriend I didn't even love. It was the end of summer, and I was on the verge of a night indelible
because it was incredible for me.

If "tall, dark, and handsome" had a face,...

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You chance upon her
in the far reaches of the backyard
a place you never go
and there she trembles  a tiny tiger in a blurred world 
secreted in shadows below blackthorn shrubs 

faint mews draw you closer
the power of her vulnerability
fills your veins with a pulse...

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I watched you this morning.

When the cool of the air settled on the morning buds
leaving only the hint of moist stolen kisses
as golden rays slowly caressed the dew from the petals,

I watched you.

Your Cobalt beauty beseeching my gaze
transcending mere mortal allure,
playful and mischievous
the Goblin dancing...

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"Peace in the Nowhere"

Ghosts remain in this place
they read their words 
marked each day on walls
like prayers, it gives them
peace in the nowhere

someplace relevant to go

Ghosts commune in this place
disowned long ago or walked
off the edge home, they scry
in pooled reflections drinking in
lost intelligence through...

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Penumbra reflections of darkness weigh cynical in my soul.
When crepuscular dreams creep through the twilight
I hear their sonorous songs sing their deceptive toll
like dysphonic bells, their desultory tones cry the devil's delight,
belying the calm of the halcyon night.

Jealousy eats at me, masticating my miserable flesh,
each...

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she enters the room gracefully
belying the heartache inside
her tale of loss floats through the air
like a windblown kite

a mother, child, and death 
reduced to silhouettes

her vision rips a hole
where there should be love 
from this pulpit 
with its congregation of one...

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Historically accurate, narrative poem

27 November 1868, on the banks of the Washita River  

Dawn’s peaceful first light streaks the eastern skies, 
belying the horror of a marauding force of horses and men,
silently stealing over new fallen snow preparing 
to deliver a fateful blow to...

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A day no true artist would dare to paint,
Breathtaking colors by God’s hand alone,
Spoiled only by a dark and lonely figure
Dropping tears on a freshly mowed grass lawn.

A nostalgic woman of former times
When a friend might come and sit a spell,
This, though, is year Two...

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SPHINX STONE 

I am Sphinx Stone
Sun stationed statue
silent sculptured synoptic 
not marble or granite 
nor black tourmaline or
crystal sapphire quartz
vortex for Void actualising 
sacred amber ambles

Timelines cutting cross
my magnetic magenta 
miracle to dissipate in
dry desert winds
my gaze unmoved 
as quizzing quantum 
queens swirl around
a Blue...

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GTF

Wizened skin like burnished leather
Thin, grey and long, disheveled hair
Clear, sharp blue eyes that seem to stare
Through sun scorched face, alert, aware

A ‘lived-In’ face that’s so expressive
Tales he tells read like a missive
His arms and hands he flails about
To all he jests, he seems to...

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Above the clouds, beyond the tree she stays.
Remaining thus, the moon is chaste for now,
Allowing not her well-worn face to show
The many scars belying better days.
I glide along, my wheelchair making way
For no man here, the streets bereft of flow,
Garages closed to keep their cars...

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Acrid thoughts flow from this observer’s savaged mind,
permutations monitored by the auditor
infestation serviced by worldly parasites,
chromatic skin quivers in the shimmering haze
nicotine stained dentine reflex the noon sunlight,
while recorded historic slaughter highlighted.
Redundant talons clasp at a life just stolen
the fallen, amongst the trodden eglantine lay,
proving...

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...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price


A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece, 
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention, 
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf,...

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...for the Rev Eric Shirvell-Price


A blizzard of papers blanketed his desk.
His pipe rack stood like a chess piece, 
mutely waiting to be shifted.
Sepia toned photographs lined the mantlepiece,
like soldiers standing at attention, 
and there was a smell of stale tobacco.
Volumes and manuscripts burst
from a bookshelf,...

Continue reading...

It was said of old, 'Truth lies open to all', but today 

               perception is  all; no one is perfect but perception 

       ...

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