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

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.

A Braid Of Blue Horizon

Fragrant scents linger still
on light wind;
across the mill
Speaking to the trees
whispers softly spoke,
Between visions of gold;
lies Calla-Lilies
Bold
Trumpet shaped
paper-like bulbs
Painted in oil strokes,
Across Western Isles,
a braid of blue horizon
A hazy day unfolds
The hours between us;
filled with wordless minutes –
seconds slip
through our fingers
No matter how we cling
Voiceless
The silent sea
and the land moans sweetly
Words fail our sensibilities,
Disentangled by the strings that cast
and bind our hearts
Our senses curve above the sun,
The clouds a husky front –
The sound of silence
Speaks to us,
In the garden of our dreams.

@ J.CALVERT 2017

Photography courtesy of Pinterest

Handkerchief Threads

It is 

the whisper;    

a soft echo in my ear

The fragile touch of first loves kiss

A Harlequin Flower

sword-like leaves 

tapered 

spikes 

green

Endless 

papery floral stalk

It is 

a thousand tiny flowers 

A needle stick; 

blood drips 

and pools,

Queen Anne’s Lace 

covered in red, 

Young hearts 

tatted

Handkerchief threads. 


J.Calvert 2017
Photograph 1: https://www.pinterest.com/brendas097/then-i-snapped-picture-perfect-photography/

Photograph 2: https://www.etsy.com/listing/155694847/fine-art-photography-the-lace

Cats Paw 

Who where you in my dreams 

I was the symmetric shape 

Of stems  

And smoking pipes,

A ornamental lilac 

Self-titled 

singular beauty  

A touch-me-not

between fingertips 

And open ended sentences 

All vying to be heard. 
Who were you in my dreams?

You were the shadows 
paraded 

across the moorlands 

The winds breath, 

a cats paw gently taping on the 

waters edge 

A poisonous look-a-like creeping 

through the fence

All vying to be heard. 

In a dream 

We were. 

J.Calvert 2017 

Photograph one: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/258957047299286025/

Photograph two: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/258957047299286025/

The Mighty Quill

‘The Mighty Quill’ by Jay Blue Poems. Such beauty and exquisiteness in his writing.

jaybluepoems

Grand! The mighty feather tears a flurried wind cross the page,
tip of quill enticed to drink, and drunken pours it out in rage!

Rips the fabric white in arcs that smolder in the drying!
Dips its nose again to sneer, and smears emotions in the trying.

Pen in thoughtless hand so stained and blotted by the pain within,
against its will is forced to kill the very page with sin.

Seduced in errant commas, gastric spelling of acrid words,
then bends to touch the love therein with gentle kiss of humming birds.

Then splash! Again is wrought in flurried panic fanfare.
Scratches out a misplaced phrase and stands amidst the blotch to stare…

And there the heart is landed, softly in a sudden thought,
that to the page the pen, in grace, pours a drop of love there wrought.

Tis nothing short of miracle, tis nothing less than mad,

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