Good Morning Heartache

Poems for pining hearts

It’s a strange word “pining”, isn’t it?

For me, it evokes pine trees with their self-made spiky cone burdens. I visualise their bark weeping antiseptic cry like broken Locket lozenges. A futile attempt to numb themselves from the pain of their own needles and a dark forest.

They can’t uproot.

They wait it out.

They know that all weather passes.

Will they ever know fairy rings or lightning bolts, or is their fate to simply rot?

I still believe in fairies, myself.

These poems dwell in such a forest.

Come with me whilst we examine in turn, a heart in three places.

Hope

Resignation

Turmoil

My man

I see him through my crystal tears, a misty apparition

Listening to pin drops of my essence call his dew 

The flutter of his lashes beats a butterfly rendition

Of every wing of colour that a swelling rose bud knew

His smile, an ivory sunrise, paves a path to new adventure

A barrel of his weather bathes the pathos of my bones 

The sparks that torch my skin suggest no causal encounter 

Whilst harbour lights that twinkle in his eyes will guide me home

Grape skies are peeling penny moons to shower us in riches

The shake of lunar spell solders our souls in tightest braid

Together we’ll fly over gold flecked fields and darkest ditches 

Whilst angels pluck celestial harps as brightest serenade 

Who Knows

.

I may not have understood you 

But oh…how I’d have strived to

Time spilled your silk, a strait of milk

To sail my battered heart through 

.

I’d bandage stars in blankets 

To buffer midnight’s hardship

The dagger points that murder love

Banished from all our road trips 

.

Feelings might not have lasted

But scarlet hours aren’t wasted

In knots and bows of highs and lows

Heather honey is best tasted

.

I’d never make the promise 

Because I’m just too honest 

I’ve seen warm breath meet frozen death

And know summer can vanish

.

So, how is it I know this?

Of our bloom of unpicked roses

Because, of all the seaglass souls 

Yours swam to me the closest

****

The attic of your temper

In the attic of your temper

Parasitic berries blister

There are cylinders of seaside rock

Sucked into points that puncture

.

You do not give an inch

Her foam still fizzing on your mattress

My shape occupies the cornice

An exaggerated actress

.

And if my heartache is your tincture

Then go ahead and view my torture

As time teases out my final bleed

In the attic of your temper

You can buy me a coffee if you enjoyed these.

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/julident19p