The beckoned in spring

it may in the outside,
A birthday into Lent,
thy moods again in bent,
belies the inner strength,
thar recedes in the recesses
from a life in death excesses.
The excuse does not always cut,
where forgiveness is but
a whisper in strands ...
the silent shout ...
from loud hailer of dry humour in hand ...

The echoes in night

the stillness and light.

A whisper snatched

a plot white hatched.

Words weird do stream,

from images seen those dreamed. 

The blur in the sub conscious,

the dark, in angst obnoxious ...

Back in the grind

after time in rewind.
A refreshing approach
on that, that was encroached.
A fall of crunchy crisp snow
in the white new glow.
A January where from lows
in time long now behind,
life beckons, amore it evokes

Amore than merry

on the bittersweet sherry.
A homemade wreath
through gritted teeth.
A batch of mince pies
oh yes, again aye ...
with golden tops brown
awashed with tea down.
The kind in decaffinated
a slow pace in heart
from dizzy in dart!
being one half, left coarse
in time granulated...
the silent yells, the mind hoarse ...

One December sunrise

my loving hubby met his demise.
The anger still reigns inside
and at times the sudden in rise.

The calm does ensue.
And given time it's due,
when one so premature
in life snuffed like gutter manure ...

Tis hard to stay sane
when what still came,
those comments in vain
when in such pain.

The see it through, in ToDo ..
the apologies do not cut it.
I deal so in many silly gits,
My time now to give in gift...

... this heals the rift
whilst I sift in shift...spilt
from time in silt adrift
with air blue in Cornish lilt

Six weeks and a month

of bump grind and hump,
the muscles getting a pump,
in times when things go bump
and things go in a thump !

The wriggles and squiggles ...

of night in restlessness.
The furtive mind, not a find,
never nor not in day found
in circles one goes around.
.