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Poetry from the ladyshed: December 2013

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Poetry from the ladyshed. Poetry and writing from a small corner of the Somerset Levels. You can't wear purple.'. This poem was written for a special friend and ladies of a certain age. I hope 2014 is a purple year for everyone. You Can't Wear Purple. 8220;Oh no, you can’t wear purple! My friend screeched in the shop. 8220;It’s not your shade or colour,. And please put back that top! 8220;But I like the shiny sequins and. All the sparkly bits.’. My friend just said it made me look like. Else we’ll ...

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Poetry from the ladyshed: April 2015

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Poetry from the ladyshed. Poetry and writing from a small corner of the Somerset Levels. I wrote this poem a long time ago and have fiddled with it over the years. I have a great emotional attachment to it - Cerulean Blue being my favourite colour. The prison walls are the edges of her garden but to her they seemed like a prison. I think the lady in this poem is a little bit of me.wouldn't we all like to escape into a a beautiful painting? 1660s, from L. caeruleus. Heaven, sky," of uncertain origin (see.

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Poetry from the ladyshed: Caeruleus

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Poetry from the ladyshed. Poetry and writing from a small corner of the Somerset Levels. I wrote this poem a long time ago and have fiddled with it over the years. I have a great emotional attachment to it - Cerulean Blue being my favourite colour. The prison walls are the edges of her garden but to her they seemed like a prison. I think the lady in this poem is a little bit of me.wouldn't we all like to escape into a a beautiful painting? 1660s, from L. caeruleus. Heaven, sky," of uncertain origin (see.

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Poetry from the ladyshed: December 2014

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Poetry from the ladyshed. Poetry and writing from a small corner of the Somerset Levels. I’m a child. With excitement and glee. Feeling winds on my face. I’m a dancer in time. I can drift through the skies,. Planets light up my eyes. This universe of ours. Shows how small we all are. I’m a dancer in time. Nets that sparkle and shimmer,. Stars that shrink and glimmer. The ancients gazed at deep black skies. No glasses to look,. No text in a book. What stars they had seen. Just what did they mean? Towzer J...

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Poetry from the ladyshed: November 2014

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Poetry from the ladyshed. Poetry and writing from a small corner of the Somerset Levels. Http:/ www.unicef.org.uk Unicef Christmas Card. The Christmas Angel waited. She sat in her box all wrapped up in sparkling tinsel and delicate soft pink tissue. but she was feeling very sad and forgotten. One cold snowy day, her box opened, and the Christmas Angel was gently lifted up to the light. Some very small warm hands held her and they very carefully removed the tinsel and unwrapped the tissue paper. Now the C...

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Poetry from the ladyshed: June 2013

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Poetry from the ladyshed. Poetry and writing from a small corner of the Somerset Levels. A Summer Weather Pantoum. Quiberon, Morbihan, France. A pantoum is when the 2nd and 4th lines of the first verse become the 1st and 3rd lines of the next verse and so it goes to the end of the poem. Hot winds blow sand across the beach,. On roof tops cats scratch itchy fleas. Dogs pant when water’s out of reach,. Sun scorched flowers shelter tired bees. On roof tops cats scratch itchy fleas. Subscribe to: Posts (Atom).

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Poetry from the ladyshed: August 2012

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Poetry from the ladyshed. Poetry and writing from a small corner of the Somerset Levels. A Masked Ball in Venice. Http:/ www.concierge.com/images/ideas/what-not-to-do-venice/gondola-ride-under-bridge-venice-italy 001p.jpg. Un Ballo In Maschera ( A Venetian Masked Ball). Fingers of mist poke smoke up dark canals,. Lamp pools of light casts shadows all around. Tall, shady shapes slink out from bacchanals. Cloaked folk walk slowly past, without a sound. Gondolas slide by, murky water laps;. Finds azure drag...

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Poetry from the ladyshed: August 2014

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Poetry from the ladyshed. Poetry and writing from a small corner of the Somerset Levels. In the alleyways and campos. You call for me. The drizzle dances softly on cobbles. Streams of steam rise. Lovers replete with Lavazza. With closed sly eyes. They listen to the music and sway. In their endless dreams they. Live their lives in seamless. Dreamy films of love and betrayal. I am a watcher – a streetwalker. A lurker who watches all life. I am a seeker in the dark. A player of the night. I jump softly down.

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Poetry from the ladyshed: August 2013

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Poetry from the ladyshed. Poetry and writing from a small corner of the Somerset Levels. The empty green bottles rattle on cobbles. When cold winds blow down the empty streets. A pile of rags moves and a human hobbles. To upright, then sways as he finds his feet. An old soldier forgotten, displaced, living under. A crumbling bridge marked for toxic disposal. A train passes over sounding like thunder,. As the homeless are given another proposal,. To sweep them from sight and bury them under. But you in th...