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.
Fevers of the Mind 