Best Thinks Poems

She pours him a cup of empty
From a teapot of childhood dreams
He loves the sound of her giggles
Hers is the light of a thousand moonbeams

Moonbeams...

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Her paintbrush is a razor,
Her canvas, her wrists,
"I deserve the pain."
She shrugs and insists.

One day the brush will push down,
And it will cut so deep,
That...

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POTD 30th August 2018 

The gently swaying branches of the old oak should elicit calmness
And yet a sense of foreboding permeates the midnight air
Wild imaginings?...

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She briskly walks in January’s rain,
which drums the endless rhythm of her pain,
pulling closer round her shoulder in the downpour
the leather jacket he so often...

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On her terrace where she once had viewed a crimson field,
she stands recalling heroes who were battling their foe.
She still can feel the terror! How...

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Ted’s libido has now gone astray
He refused a quick roll in the hay
So what could be the cause -   
It’s the male menopause...

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The Library of Trust and Hope
The Bank of Trust and Hope

(Cant decide on title, so feel free to pick or suggest one)

She was all but...

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One day while passing by a tree, I heard a sigh.
It seemed the oak could speak; I felt my knees go weak,
for like a siren’s...

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A Turnip and a Cabbage
    are walking down the street.
This may seem a might peculiar 
    as they hadn't...

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St Anthony's orphanage was founded some thirty years ago
For homeless and orphaned children, by a priest Father Angelo
Every child was made welcome; race and religion...

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The best paths move forward.
Don't waste your time looking back.
The things you've said, the things you've done,
Can never be brought back.

Don't waste the little time...

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I sit here and ponder the days that have past
The many loves that I had, that just didn’t last.
One really sticks out, wish I had...

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The child is a poet with innocent eyes
		And a bumpity A-B-C rhyme,
		A dancer whose feet with the rhythm of life
		Move in jubilant one-two-three time.

		The child...

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My inky echoes conflate, 
atop mountains of ivory versos; 
Blank pages into whispers,
like the sway of moonlight tides;

Papers dappled by my ineffable, 
frays of jet-black...

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tenderly ...
as if robin's eggs
I consider the brittle fragments
of her heart, cupped in
my tarnished Tin Man hands -
not taking for granted
the entrusting of their care
I...

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