Stroked Poems

Before I Knew Your Name

Before I knew your name, you spoke to me. 
Before I saw the contours of your face, 
or learned about your talent, or the place 
you call your home, you'd touched me lastingly. 

Before I understood your shifting moods, 
or touched your lovely skin, or heard you weep, 
you were already in me, buried deep: 
this never was some shallow interlude. 

I loved you though I'd never heard your voice 
or stroked your hair. It was just meant to be. 
In some unknowable realm we made our choice, 
without recourse to hand, or heart, or eye, 
for those are carnal things which fade and die: 
and I have loved you for eternity.

Ginger Cat

I have this little Ginger Cat.
Lord knows what he sees
in me! – cutest adoring eyes
I don’t deserve; purrs in 
reserve, as he settles to cuddle
and be stroked. 
   All I do is feed him, a bowl of
fresh water couple times a day -- 
box of clay for his business – but,
I could almost swear, that there is 
true love for me, exhibited in even
our mundane close encounters

given a chance, he would kill every
backyard dove...just for fun shred

I guess, he’s only being a cat for I
keep him well fed

hoping God instructs Michael
to give similar latitude when it
comes to His Man

sure can be confusing, when 
considering, God, and His, often, perplexing
species' plan....

what a palette

he liked it black and white with no greys in between
even when cracks appeared so strikingly evident
strictly speaking he preferred pink purple and orange
yet when life gave him lemons the brush would not work

the more he stroked and tarred over ruptures and fractures
uncertainty became elusive and poignantly concise 
quite the opposite of what he had bargained for with all
the power delusion distraction insecure fear and despair

he knew that the writing was on the wall and yet
the language was foreign complex and would not reveal
meaning message beauty connotation and guidance
as he was blocked into silence depression resentments

all this had been the relentless story of his life and he
could not bear it any longer seemed to have lost all control
a rational mind portrayed it as the gift of desperation
a way forward towards healing perspective and peace

it was difficult to will positive emotions into effect
matters did not fall into balance but skewed misperceptions
what remained was hope rather than mere expectations
and he carried his burdens into an unpredictable but promising future

The Murmuration

l saw her by the edge of the burnt mossy wall
and she was watching high above,  over forests so tall
then as the dusk gathered starlings,  that danced in the melting sun
it was the breathless display,  and mesmerising begun

in the last Autumn rays,  that painted threads through the trees
like the strands in her hair that stroked again in the breeze
and their dance was perfection as she watched murmuration
and their velvet display was their beautiful creation

gently the stars said hello, as the white moon glimpsed below
and her slowly wrapped dreams,  she sent of her kisses he'd know
and they went drifting slow like the gossamer clouds
and her love for him soft, like the starling, a glow

still her eyes searched afar, over the bracken filled glens
as she looked for his face and his smile and his arms to embrace
and never gave up hope,  as she waited each night
and she watched starlings call , over mossy green wall 

the dance of the starlings is a sight to behold
like a true love is precious , more precious
than gold.

Sisters

My sisters stroked my girlfriends hair
Saying lovely hair
Then both of them went into
a cupboard under the stairs
Like something a la Burton

Sorry my ex-girlfriend

I am ashamed by my country

Where do you hand in your documents to leave the human race

Glad you enjoyed space
Cause everything is melting
Watch you don’t burn your lips
on the earth

Trump I mean really was there nobody could do a half decent Kermit impression

What do you get if you cross chocolate with children
a visit by Prince
and drew a breath

Those things that monitors speed
Pedo
meter

We need someone to invent hope
as we choke boke
a clicking in my throat
with the stroke
of a note
this I have wrote

Touch

Childhood has me
with a fevered brow 
being gently stroked 
and bathed in the cool 
of a caring breath
as I lay sick -
recalling, when I was
only six years old,
the electric thrill
that surged through me
when brushed by the shoulder
of Patricia Clark
in a classroom 
at primary school
and fell in love - 
and feeling 
the tense tremble
beneath the feathery soft
body of a pigeon
I cradled in my hands
as it slowly let go,
closed its eyes
and died.

In the prison of its isolation
the soul craves the gift
of touch.

Nevermore, Whatever For?

My eyes wandered through an old photograph.
Pausing suddenly, I dissolved in tears,
remembering how, the first half of half
of my life, you were with me all those years, 

and how my young love, bonny, bright, and fair,
stroked you with fingers, delicate and soft,
as well she styled you, "beautiful blonde hair",
and admired you, as wind bore you aloft. 

So, bitterly, I asked, why did you leave?
Slowly, bit by bit, I was abandoned,  
to sadly mourn and hopelessly to grieve.
Yet, I struggle hard to understand and,

thinking philosophically, I say, 
drying my tears away, "'twas only DNA".

departure

departure
 
i touched her face
then kissed her lips
and stroked her tears
as i turned away
 
her hair was long
i brushed it aside
and we kissed again
as never before
 
i remember her tears
on my fingertips
and her lingering kiss on my lips
encasing her forced smile
 
i walked her to the waiting taxi
hoping she would change her mind
but somehow we both smiled
hating the smell of yellow cabs
 
and it was the hollow sound of the trunk
slammed with a final exclamation
that she would turn and leave
on her one-way trip to tomorrow
 
tomorrow…some distant elusive place
where we reflect upon fond memories
wondering if maybe today had failed
and if the taxi stopped short of tomorrow 

tolbert

She’s Been Here Before

Once green and firm,
she danced, 
on the boughs edge.
Whirling and dipping, 
through the breezes, 
of changing seasons.
She basked, 
in hot summer suns.
Rejoicing in the adulation,
heaped upon her,
as she selfishly, 
provided shade,
and shelter
to all who sought it.
Asking for nothing,
needing no one.
Autumn days, 
stroked her ego, 
into maturity.
transforming her,
into the envy of 
artists and poets,
sages and prophets,
wise men and clerics.
But the chill of winter’s age,
dried and wrinkled her,
she fell,
dying.
Until all that remains,
of her once majestic existence,
is a final crumbling gasp, 
under the heels of,
marching boots.

My cat can’t be happy

Ok God hear it is
I spent eons perfecting an animal that cares about nothing I call it a……Cat
Gabriel beams as he places it gently in Gods lap

Could you please remove it
It is making a weird noise
and is constantly nipping me with its claws

Sorry your Lordness
Gabriel lifted the cat from his maker

Before we begin the test
I hope this is better than your last attempts
What was it again….God stroked his head
Yes the Dodo
The duck filled platypus
Oh and let’s not forget the humans

So …., shifting back on her throne…..test 1
Obey your maker
Come here……his finger pointing just beside her feet
The cat drew its eyes and darted off in chase of some flickering light

Okay good start…but let’s not celebrate too soon
Gabriel

Her me Cat sit
she sat transfixed by the cat
as it curled itself into a donut and fell asleep he glanced at Gabriel………very impressive

The cat leapt from its prone position
It jerks in juxtaposition with its grunts
Finally ending its exorcism in a matted tuft of regurgitated fur

and still and still

  he stroked my cheek 
       and wound my hair 
in his fingers
  kissing my throat  
       I sighed
closing my eyes
   as his lips brushed mine 
we stayed together 
         all the night long
and still and still
      we have not stirred

Once A Year

Once a year
in the early spring
I scatter some reclaimed
seeds
from a section of yard

where the wild flowers grow -- 

a reserved place, there
left unattended
how they bloom, all on
their own

where the wild flowers
bloom,
a welcome to early bees
and butterflies

the old black cat seems to like
them as well

a nestled, deadly shadow, all comfy

in a lap of blazing, garnished nature 

stroked by the southerly
tempering breeze 

God! he has such allergies,
the poor little beast's, watery
eyes...

yet, every year
while I scatter
he seems to dream
faithfully

Lucifer, scourge of mice!
 
for a budding' moment, exculpated!


as a wand, my magician' hand
glides over the the future
materialized bed

seeding memories

long gone but not forgotten

when I was also omnipotent


demurely purring


one of the wild flowers

heedless of seasons 

and the sentence of time --

romantic feelings

Romantic feelings

If I were a horse 
with an unsure bloodline
If you, on a summer’s day 
when the field was green 
stroked my flanks, gave me
a slice of bread
I would love you more than
The beautiful nurse
Who helped me with my socks
When I could not bend down

1st Kiss

To start the new year with a kiss
I woke up from a dream of this
I asked you if you wouldn't mind
Onto my chest your head reclined
I stroked your hair and said, I guess
your answer will not be a yes
Then you looked up, I feared the worst 
But then you went and kissed me first

Cosmic Collage

My heart seeks the smoky quartz sage within you, in secret,
like a solitary star adrift in the whimsical wilderness.
For I remember your voice, that manifested mellifluous musicality,
nurturing vain verses to thrive like lavender-incensed lilies,
glowing with sun-stroked flames of empathetic iridescence,
emanating sealed serenity amidst the archaic darkness,
crawling above raspberry-red roses, waltzing in silence.

Tonight, I cradle crooning clouds, soaked in sleepless sapphires,
as the petrichor breeze serenades your unconditional love,
that quenched my crestfallen quill, releasing cashmere calligraphy.
But if poems could speak, you’d feel the wildflower warmth of words,
how, once upon a camellia crescent, I found my inner rhyme in your sea-foam sonnets,
unveiling a cosmic collage of a sojourner soul,
healing from timeless tokens carved by familiar strangers, celestially aligned, forevermore…

   I am the afterglow of a sanguine sunset~
airbrushed with patience by the power of your peridot pigments, 
as your tongue is the mindful maestro, and I, the   essence of your charismatic choir. …

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