Behind closed eyes you stroked my hand last night,
Transformed the Winter, charmed it into Spring,
Then drew me close as dark turned morning light,
And wept to hear a single blackbird sing.

We walked dawns air, felt dappled light discrete,
In dreams glade soft, saw sun through dewdrops shine,
A heady scent to tease still air, so sweet,
Where honeysuckle and hawthorns breath entwine.

We moved in time, all else was no regard,
Where by the pool on lilies, dragons feed,
And perfumed waters blend with spikenard.
Translucent eyes, reflect desire and need,

Wakening sounds make gentle thoughts abate,
Sad, must I rise to later dream your face,
Thoughts fade, sleep goes; you’re gone. But wait,
I wake in bliss, I’m wrapped in your embrace.

Copyright © 2011 Roger Grice – all rights reserved

 

My Grandfather wore
A watch chain
Across his waistcoat
Greasy stains
Of last weeks fish in butter
Sucking bones,
And tea from a saucer.

A folding wooden table
By the wall
The plastic cloth
Slippery to touch, smelled
Of lard and
Grandfathers fish.

He couldn’t see or hear
A thing in the end
He smelled of age
And anger
No shirt collar
No smile.

Copyright © 2009 Roger Grice – all rights reserved

 

A warm sofa in Kiev
An icicle bigger than a wine bottle
Struggled with gravity, outside a grubby
Fifth floor window overlooking
A Sunday building site, wet wood and
Cement smells mixing with a soft
Drizzle of watery snow. A defiant
Ice-blue paradox smoothed and
Shaped by relentless steppe-wind.
On the other side of the window
A warm glow came from the sofa.

 

Still, in the quiet hours of night,
Laid shuttered, hid, ’til fleeting chance,
Made thoughts of you spark to a light,
And witnessed flushed emotions dance.

These stirrings stole through feelings deep,
And dreamed, perchance you close above,
To brush my lips, my heart make leap,
And kiss away those tears of love.

Such kiss with length and rapture sweet,
Will rouse a hunger, strength of need,
Until the morning light can greet,
Our souls in paradise will feed.

A dream or real, I know not which,
But feel sweet breath upon my cheek,
With perfumed breeze of pleasure rich,
Our mouths move much, yet not to speak.

Heart trembling first, now bold, beats true,
As aching breast of mine meets yours,
Just skins sweet scent between the two,
Like waves of silk stroke velvet shores.

Moist lips together, lightly touched,
Intense we melt, two halves of one,
As passions surge hands tightly clutched,
And radiant bursts that dim the sun.

Our faces warm with passions heat,
We dance together thoughts entwined,
A last release, with joy complete,
From hope to perfect love consigned.

Copyright © 2009 Roger Grice – all rights reserved

 

I was talking to someone I met on-line recently. They were telling me about the pollution that comes from an industrial area near where they live that sometimes makes the air difficult to breath. It made me realize how lucky some of us are to have clean air. It brings home the fact that if we don’t stop our bad habits, eventually we will all have this situation. There won’t be any clean air left for anyone to breathe.

Hey, that’s ok, as long as we make a profit. Who cares about the quality of the air we breathe or we leave for our children to breathe, let’s focus on important issues like money. We know it’s important, don’t we? After all we have been given an example of the right way to do things from the triumvirate of despotic evil, Bush, Cheney and Rumsfeld. Thankfully their time is up, it’s a pity no-one will hold them accountable for the death and suffering they have caused to hundreds of thousands of human beings. Maybe the Universe will administer a dose of karmic revenge at some point, and cosmically wipe the smirks from their faces.

Anyway, there it is. Some of the things that were said to me, stuck in my mind and motivated the poem Summer Wheat.

 

It’s four o’clock and I can’t sleep,
My God it’s cold, and what’s that smell?
It’s half past four and I can’t breathe,
I dreamt and then I thought I fell.

Central heating broke again,
Factory smoke burns eyes and throat,
It creeps in through the broken pipe,
I’m in my bed but need my coat.

Thank God my son is with my mum,
Else stunt his growth this smoke it would,
Where can I breathe at five a.m.,
We must get out, if once we could.

The river fog creeps to my door,
When make the boats their mournful sounds
It mixes with pollution smoke,
And silent ‘gainst my window pounds

I seek a chance, escape this place,
Where air tastes cool and fresh and sweet,
To find that land of which I dream,
Where sways the golden summer wheat.

Copyright © 2009 Roger Grice – all rights reserved

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