When words were your only nourishment
I fed you calla lilies budding in my throat.
From the stacked shelves of your smoky library I read to you Aristophanes,
of all poets we loved him best.
In the final hours we longed for rippling fields, anything windswept, certain of life and death.
It’s my dream to visit the Blue House…Equinoxio has taken us on an amazing
tour of the former home of Frida Kahlo, the Mexican surrealist artist, who is so fascinating I
once wrote a poem about her. I may dig it up one day. Do visit, it’s enchanting
. Thank you, Equinoxio!
As far as the eye can see
cracked and yellowing stones
jut from the verdure.
Bronze plaques covered
in dried leaves rustle in
the forlorn zephyr
Worn flags mark the treasure
to designate where valor lies.
Stiff with age they quiver
like the hearts of caged doves.
Make saying hi, having a laugh and grabbing lunch together great again
Make shooting the breeze by the shore as the tide comes in great again
Make the way pebbles change colour in the surf water great again
Make climbing that tree and watching the river great again
Make holding the only hand that means anything and squeezing the hope for all it’s worth great again
Make walking round the block until the streets begin to change and the place you’re aching for starts to walk with you great again
Make turning to the person hiding at the back of the room and saying “yeah, I feel it too” great again
Make the things you sketch into the sky at sunset great again
Make the shy phosphorescence behind my eyes great again
Make the pulsing of jellyfish great again
Make what I wrote for you great again
Make me what I was back then
and give me one last chance in the same soft moment
Give me that
Watch me melt
like a cuddle in cooking oil
And make sharing a slow, awkward, stuttering truth
so beautiful and nuanced that I have no choice but to feel my way towards it
make those moments great again
A fluttering
behind the roar of rhetoric and engines
beneath the drills
mining for core values, certainties and gold
and lies charismatic enough to kill them all
Make those whispers great again
even when their greatest and most heartbreaking magic is not to say anything at all
Poetry Copyright author John Hulme
In the far corners of my mind, we meet within
a satin dream of velvet seas where white horses
rush in below star filled skies.
Thunder rolls and lightning strikes,
( it’s seldom peaceful when dreams and reality collide).
The taste of salt fills my mouth and the
night air feels like lovers’ hands.
In a whirlwind of longing, we are everything brilliant,
candles flickering, sparks becoming flames.
I’ve been here forever
hidden away in fantasies,
dimly lit rooms where
moonbeams caper blithely
over the river Seine.
All of my memories are strangers,
they come and go.
I want them to know
the smokey purple of lunar tides,
the bittersweet of Rose red.
They linger on lamp lit streets,
shadows on tiger paws.
This is where we fall away, not knowing where we will land. In a garden where we have taken root, or among sea creatures in an ocean deep. It is merely a matter of time before you catch me when I fall.
My arms are albino snakes
basking in the sun and the
hot sand burns my feet.
Pearls glisten on my skin
and a garland of abalone is tied
to nothing but my hand.
The sound of laugher rings
through coves where lovers await
the rushing tide to tumble into the sun
again with hearts that carry no burden
but love.
So much creativity and beauty in one place! ❤️
All I need to know is you are there somewhere,
that there are birds of a thousand colors in the
lush crowns of trees
that line my river bank like high wire
acrobats without a net.
I need to know the river runs through your forest
where you hear the same song as I as they pass
with wings tipped in your direction.
Where I am my feet wade cool sweet water,
the sun on my shoulders is a kiss from the
heavens as it drifts across the sky
carrying the contours of your face.
As the wind picks up,
your laughter is the breeze and
I am the chimes.
Hyperion has discovered a way out of the Sad Cafe, An island where the only sound is the sea sweeping the shore.
House of Heart 