Who has the job of painting the sky,
Who owns the ladders to reach up so high,
Who knows which colourful palletes delight,
Perpetual artwork designed to excite!
A fracture appears at the breaking of dawn,
A slither of pink cracks; the new day is born.
A blank canvas waits for the master’s sleight hand,
He lovingly tends all the colours he’s planned.
Forget-me-not, when the light goes out,
Forget-me-not, when you’re full of doubt,
I’ll walk behind your shadowed path,
I’ll guide you through the aftermath.
Forget-me-not, when the skies are blue,
Forget-me-not, I’ll be close to you,
You maybe lost, but my heart’s still true,
I feel only love, when I think of you.
Oh bells of blue, who rings for you?
It’s time to take your toll!
I listen carefully everyday,
Sat on my grassy knoll.
I see the willows bow and wave,
I hear leaves tittle tattle,
I catch the naughty nettles giggle,
The ants and bugs at battle.
I sat upon this little step
To contemplate and think.
It felt so peaceful in the shade,
I stole me forty winks!
I dreamed I floated in midair,
Towards the highest bough.
I thought I’d climb steps to the sky,
If my dreamscape would allow.
A fading flower weeps fragility and grace,
A delicate beauty beholding its face,
Each shrivelling petal gets wrinkled and worn,
Exhausted, world weary, it’s weathered and torn.
Their once clear complexion, plumped up and pert,
Has a soft irridescence, a look of feint hurt.
They haven’t the strength to turn round to the light,
Hanging their heads, they long for goodnight.
She skipped down the lane, in her silken, pink dress,
Quietly humming, her smile, effortless.
A spirit of innocence, as nature intends,
Her days full of wonder, where time never ends.
The noonday sun mirrored, on golden brown hair,
Ribbon-tied ringlets held high, in midair.
In rhythm, they bounced with her large, pink frock bow,
The crafted, bright flowers of the skirt, hung below.
Look! It’s the king of the jungle!
The strongest & noblest of beasts,
Look at his yellow coat shimmer,
The pride; roaming North, South, West, and East.
Look! It’s the stubborn survivor;
The monarch who wears a gold crown.
The first friend in Spring to the insects & bees,
Bright yellow, in country, and town.
There once were three sisters,
Three sisters, yes, three!
Their lives, fun and blissful,
Delightful, carefree.
Each day they would dance,
They would prance in the wood,
The wild joy of innocence,
Of charming childhood.
Like dank & dreary ectoplasm, rolling through the hills,
Shapeshifters crawl valley floors, contorting all their skills.
A clear view scene becomes erased, its softened lines rubbed, blurry,
Each featured definition fades, as focus turns to furry.
Feel clinging mist and lifeless fog enrobing cool, bare skin,
Sense its dense breath stroking cheeks & dampening your chin.
Traipse betwixt the writhing forms, cascading through the gloom,
Where ghostly apparitions fade & tortured spirits bloom.
Lay me down on a blanket of white,
Where tears are frozen and eyes shut tight.
Feeling the tingle from cool, crisp sheets,
Drifting down, silently, piece by piece.
A magical palace, where earth blends with sky,
And freezing stars glisten, remotely, on high.
A calming, clear bitterness, fashioned from ice,
Where crystal, laced petals shine bright, to entice.
