29 May 2013

A whisper from eternity

The "if I use a bigger piece of paper, the tree will fit" theory did not quite work, but there was room for an old poem.

27 May 2013


I love the seasons, maybe as I age I appreciate the brave metaphor of renewal that surrounds me more. 

Nothing knows form
And nothing takes shape
Without the breath of death
Forcing it to gape -
The endless maw of time
That powers the rhyme 
Of the world. 

26 May 2013


I am pretty happy with the sky above my poem.

He is a true troubadour.
Every night, outside my door,
He becomes the song of evening,
As he plucks the string of eternal day;
The forever dawn is his play
And the melody of my life.

22 May 2013


I like making trees. They admit a simple realism to my limited skills. The first one is just ink in brush pen and was quick.

The second one is a bit glary, it's not dry, but it will fit on the scanner later. It is a mixture of watercolour and ink with just brushes and lots of layers of foilage. The mixed media paper has ridges on it which you can see. I don't use this paper much, because it is so heavy, but it was perfect for this. In the corner is a card. I saved all the offcuts from trimming mat board and glued them to a piece of cardboard, then varnished it. So it could be a coaster. Or a postcard.

So this gives more of an idea of what it looks like. When leaves change colour in autumn it is because the tree is eating all the nutrients in them to build up strength for the winter. It is drawing all its strength within to the core.

17 May 2013

Winter is coming

Hark Spring!

When will you
sing once more?

First, to the demands
of Winter, I must
open the door.

It is not the seeming
bitter season that comes;
but a dream is a seed,
and seeds too must dream.

Only, I am cold and alone
in the dark of earth.

Yet, this too
is a dream.

13 May 2013

Autumn's mirror

This is a an autumn tree. Stark, bare, nudile. (Yeah, that's not a word).

And a fragment of Rumi which appeals to me. I am pretty sure he never wrote his poems down. They were sung and passed through time this way, from singer to listener. New voices breathing life into them, breathing life into new voices.

This next poem is at least six years old. I know I had just discovered Rumi when I wrote it, but tonight I was just looking for something to decorate and practice embellishing. I would definitely get some spaces in there if I typed it up again.

Can seven words be a poem?

One word can be a poem properly spoken, but this is more a thought.

I really don't know how to conclude, but will quote my best poem:

O love,
The poets have not
Exhausted you yet.

All their words
Are like clouds
Drawn from the
Endless ocean.

They only rain
Back down
To the source,
All the while
Covering the sun!

You, My Lord,
Find this amusing
No doubt.

In the words of the Quran:

“If the Ocean were ink (wherewith to write out) the words of My Lord,
Sooner would the ocean be exhausted than the words of My Lord,
Even if we added another ocean like it for its aid.”


12 May 2013

Sunday montage

This is bits and pieces in hopefully a sensible order. The long poem at the end jumps between pieces written over a span of 15 years. I am quite fond of playing with gradients in Photoshop at the moment and I find poetry in ink upon a page more visually appealing than typed in black and white. Probably some of the poems have been here before, but most of it is new. I am also quite keen on decorative lettering right now.

09 May 2013

Autumn wine

I was not that impressed with my photo of the sunset, but I like the poem it breathed life into.

I am very happy with this postcard.