My Heart is a Wild Place

 

My heart

is a wild place

But

I dare not tread

with loud feet

and ungloved hands

My heart 

Is a wild place

But

I move in subtle rhythm

With soft-coloured eyes

behind lashes

My heart 

is a wild place

But

Words are seldom

with a mute tongue

Surrounded by lips like cherries

My heart 

is a wild place

But

Touch is sharp

with finger tips

and nails

red

My heart 

Is a wild place

But

Pomegranate

and rose bush

twill in a wind

of frosty dew

My heart 

is a wild place

But

Once untameable

Now

sleeps peaceful

beside

loves

unspoken

tender tones

to tell a thousand words.

ALL WORDS COPYRIGHT

J.Calvert 2017

I am Queen 

I am Queen 

In a Garden Without Shade

My wings will wait 

in a garden 

without shade  

feathers bowed 

in the heat,

Fine hairs 

carelessly thread 

droplets of sweat gleam 

under a summer sun  

The weight of the garden bed 

and Rose bush spike, 

Jupiter scents the air 

to caress tired eyes 

In this paradise 

Built for one

little wings 

Untie 

Spread

two souls

take flight.
J.Calvert 2017

Tin Horse

A horse
made of tin
lay baking
in the sun
beside the outhouse,
mama’s wine glass
resting on the gravel
where she left it last
rocks
glistened in the heat
my eyes sore
from the lemon-grass trees
pine needles prick
the back of my feet
my nostrils flare with dust
black sheep
and
red dog licking at my feet
all around
baron
carcasses
dry
blend with dirt
like roots to the earth,
crows to pick their bones
Papas skin
burnt
sleep he does not know
Hummingbirds
call to the blue bells bush,
The horizon beacons across
the remote
like western light touching
the window pane,
in quiet isolation
This is where I call home.

Whiskey Glass

woodman

Photo by Frances Livings

The dewy kiss of morning light,
shines upon our wallpaper
water stains
crease the lines
and bare our pain
lipstick marks the mirror,
crimson curled
floral and mould weave
an asymmetrical pattern
breathing life into where we dwell

walls2

Photo by Francesca Woodman

We’re the sawed off pieces of vintage
lace blowing against the window frame
The rotting leg, of a Victorian chase
mercury glass hangs –
the ceiling; a cold damp place,
with a tobacco stench

You, sit in silence
with a comb through your hair,
like an willow branch bowed at the waist
once an oriental lily,
now a bud cut from a stem

I, sit in silence
with a whiskey glass in my hand,
fingers blanched
Blank and vacant decadence
a childlike glance

We can’t recollect
a time before this,
Our withered bones and shredded skin
glisten in the sun
breeding
an unfortunate tale
one of stagnant drench.

@ J.CALVERT 2017

When I wrote this, I had a clear picture in my head, of a beautiful women fading-vacant and a man with a whiskey glass in hand. A time of depression, where the bottle took over their lives. Not sure where this poem came from, but it was written. Funny how the writers mind works.

Do you often read your work back and think where did this come from?