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.
It’s strange, listening to yourself reading back your own poems.
You become aware of your own drama, sense of self entitlement and bullshit.
That said I don’t care.
It’s my therapy so fuck it😂😂
Goddamn Julie Dee, you can write. (As soon as I put that, I worried that it sounded like a backhanded aspersion upon your enunciation - clearly, you can also speak!)