The Dawn Blooms
The dawn blooms like a reddest rose,
matched in hue only by her lovelier cheek,
where a blush of passion ignites under
soft fingertips,
drawing the heat of my heart
upon the canvas of her beauty's gaze,
where in the creek of lips kisses glisten;
all those taken, all those yet to give,
held by the pleasures of craving day
when drawn my job and situations and night -
ah night, my friend, my company, my companion you,
how oft we have waited,
comforting one another long into the tarry
pit holding on to ourselves expectant,
waiting for that star of her to come burning
up the wavy little path;
moonlight silhouetting lively hips,
hearing a quiet hand twirl a sliver of silver key between -
slender fingers a soft rattle to,
smoothly unlock your door,
before entering across your velvet body
wearing still the day's glow
parting darkness parts for,
as shadows magically disperse the clothes,
presenting entirely her entire grace,
slipping into nude perfection,
as she climbs her active warmth into bed
sharing its gathering upon me full,
first building,
then breaking my dam of stars to rush
until only those twinkling above remain to
swim onwards towards the dawning rim
whence blooms red again,
like a carnation bled,
in whose bright aurora I trace the morning of her face,
to have come forth that special sun of fingertips and lips
caressing the carnal flower the dawn smiles with.
A Drunken Bee
Sweeter than a drunken bee
she brings her soft lips to me
delivering life's great nectar
opening a little velvet letter
no sober man can finer wish
the reading of paradise's kiss
then she is off, skipping away
like a flash of lithe sunray
smiling chase me if you dare
whilst morning carries her fair
bright across the room and out
to the splash of a shower's spout
leaving me to bask with wonder
amdist wavelet sheets asunder
recalling each tender grasp when
peeking around the jamb, she asks;
"well, aren't you coming then?"
thus arising with her smile on me
I zigzag between unshed wears
sweet as a drunken bee.
I GNU RUT
With a wooden drawer's
metal finger
i gnu rut into a
vegetables' body
like a starving wildebeest
in hunger discovering
some instinctual act of topiary
shaping a soil's growth
tender as a lover holding
and slowly
slowly the dress comes off
revealing soft flesh of
nakedness to touch
my eyes alit with
the smile lips wear
as I put my newly
unsheathed root aside
footsteps appear behind
my hearing
followed by a belt of arms
and buckle hands
fingers momentarily clasp
as a warm breath
whispers a scent of its
suggesting
i mumble some reply
D.H. Lawrence would
I'm certain happily plunge between
his most famous creations.
I Wish to Describe You
I wish to describe you
something beautiful
for today I saw
something quite perfect
in splendour of
soft dappled sunlight
residing on a golden afternoon
a sky afire with blushing
woodland leaves of oak
and birch
partnered in dancing
a delicate subtle breeze
swirling amidst fragrances
of lilac sleeves
petal-heads bobbing and
bowing in meditative waves
upon whose warm airs
a play of starlings swooped
and swept a wondrous hive
like latter shadows of
northern lights appearing
before the ridge of green
turning a butter shade
where the sun after another
day too shortly gone
gently set beyond my mind
gazing upon such beauty
i wished to mention then
but had not the thought to
think you did not understand
my thinking you something beautiful.
Everything Went Green
I remember being young,
when yesterdays hadn't been invented
and tomorrow had far to come,
i remember being because i climbed
a now forgotten tree,
back when,
in some other back garden;
time overgrown, history cut down,
scrambling up amidst leafy branches,
journeying lost between foliages of dreams,
picking off large angry-looking apples
and throwing them to the ground -
o satisfaction! o joy!
enjoying the ways they smashed open
upon the hungry grass,
remembering,
just so,
as i jumped after them
and lay screaming myself broken in parts
inside that soft mouth
beneath the burning sun and sky
as everything went green.
Shining Bird
A shard of shrapnel
in my gazing
drifts across the ocean high
leaving in its wake
foamy surfs of cloud
upon which i
in stupor gazing
momentarily float
over my wandering mind
wondering why
a bird made of metal
flies so contented
near the boiling star-sun
certain she won't melt?
for certain
if i was to climb as high -
upon a very tall ladder,
i'd imagine -
i think in due course
i would begin to melt
or, at the very least,
lose consciousness
and fall a distance
to my doom -
perhaps this is why
i've never flown upon
a metal bird,
nor climbed any
ladders higher than
my own legs,
for knowing if i did
i would either melt
or fall a great distance.
A Dying Flame for the Moth?
In the tall deepness of first night
When darkness was the only light
And all was sewn from onyx cloth
And none did know of the moth;
Where roof and floor were only same,
Living below, above one another;
And the sky was the ground in name,
Identical face of one sister-brother -
What change, what birth did occur
To suddenly roil the untilled silence?
And was it alone, or by compliance,
Some energy laboured the tar to stir?
Who so furrowed the black cloud?
And how pulled the darken plough?
What hand swung the shaded scythe?
Did the seer see with blinded eye?
And in reaping that first crop of stars
Did they marvel long the shining seeds,
Held by ancient palms burnt with scars,
Or did they discard them as the weeds
Where so scattering beyond one's sight
A puddle of death received spots of life,
And therein, chasing ripples darkened of,
Blossomed a dying flame for the moth
BIO from 2020:
Al Matheson is a poet who "enjoys" staring at blank pages until words emerge. Having appeared in several online magazines and journals, whilst posting poems daily on Twitter at @AlMatheson_1
Beyond this he can oft be found lumbering around the leafy woods and fields of Surrey, England where he resides.
