Poems

Artist Articles - Poems

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I dream in the night,its quite a delight.

I flit and slip,shift and re-shape.

My form melts into dawn,and changes in to night.

 

In my dream,when i was just a teen,

i thought i had been to the far reaches of my race.

As i grew older,my dreams got bolder,

out of kilt,out of order,but then i broke the ultimate border.

 

My mind escapes,from the rat race,

out it flew into space,my o my at what a pace.

 

The moon waned,as i strained,the speed and distance gained.

The planets whizzed past,in a blink of my eyes,

my universe,shimmered and slipped,as i flew past.

 

Stars were born,exploded and imploded,

planets are shattered,splatted and anti-mattered.

 

I have a thirst as i lie in my Hurst.

My soul has grown old,shimmering with cold.

My dream has stretched,as my body is fetched.

 

I dream into the night,gave the cat a fright,

im free to roam,to travel alone.

To travel a far ,as i leave my body on a distant star.

 

TO DREAM IS TO TRAVEL,TO TRAVEL IS TO BE FREE.

SO WHEN YOU LEAVE YOUR BODY,VISIT THE UNSEEN.

The Traveller

 

Artist Articles - Poems

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THE RUBBISH DUMP

I'm very proud,extremely loud'

And constantly covered in a cloud.

 

All around for all to see,

bags,and rags cover the ground.

 

Bikes,and trike's,broken kites,all muddled and huddled against the night.

Higgled and wiggled,pooped and puddled.

Squished,and squashed,all unloved and never washed.

 

This is my world,out of order,in a pile out of kilter,packed and pushed,all in a pickle,never a touch nor a tickle.

 

No fun ,no sun,a broken gun.

Pins and poles,grass clippings of old,chippings with mould.

Boxes and papers,even fridge scrapers.

 

All in a mess,depressed and undressed.

Flattened and mangled,all at odd angles.

 

But amongst this mess is a perfect nest.

Its round and proud,gold and silver,gleams and glints.

Smells of fresh mints.

 

I looked again that very next day,but only found grey rotting hay.

no gold nor silver,not a glint,just a slither of rotting mint.

 

Springs and coils,wheels and oils.

Bitten,smitten all well lived in.

My home is the deepest darkest dustbin.

Kitchen sinks full of inks,pots and pans used by many hands,

beds and spreads,molten leads,all melting around my bed.

My home is a busy dump,full of noise,many a scream.

It even has its own dream.

 

Bits and bobs,rotten logs,cogs and wheels, potato peels'

Pericardia and ice,mouldy rice.

Among the junk,i like to hunt,pulling and snagging often dragging.

 

Im sure i spotted a dragon.

Far down the stream,in my dream im sure i saw a lot of steam.

The steam was pale and yellow,im sure i heard a bellow.

Amongst the junk,i saw a hump,a tail a snail,or was it a curtain rail.

It flipped and flapped,wibbled and wobbled,squished and squashed.

It smelt all clean and washed.

 

I  awoke from my dream,the house was cream,the walls were bright.

The windows gleamed,the house was square,even the yard was empty and bare.

 

The stream was blue,the mist was white,but i was in for a terrible fright.

 

For out of the blue,in front of you,is a purple dragon looking at you.

With a blink of his eye,a swish of his tail,he magicked all the rubbish away.

All was in order,tidy and in piles,even in straight orderly lines.

Bagged and tagged,all with an alphabetical tab.

WAS IT A DREAM WAS IT REAL I WILL LEAVE THAT FOR THE DRAGON TO REVEAL.

 

THE END