This is just a short poettry storm as i have just had coffee as a writing exercise. you never know when inspiration will strike and if, like me you, are a true artists you have to go where your creative beckons you to go, like a dandelion husk on the wond or a sticky bob on a cat's tale, or a special person chosen like Richard Dreyfuss to make mountains out of clay and venture forth into the u nknown with the space alans because you are a special prophet for the greys.
POtrait of the poetess at a window as she wrirtes
Throught the window, onto her damask, gossmaer alabster skin
the spidery dappling sunlight trickles through fading tree leaves
wisps of autumn light is patterning her pretty brow
like a speckled mischeivous young trout
winnowing through a babbling brook
her cheek bones are wise and thoughtful,
and her pink lips moist with crisp ideas
words are her esential tools ;
she expressess, like breast milk,
the craftwomans beauty of her existence
through theire font dance quilling on the papyprus like old page
and in tune with Cleopatra, she too writes
of storm swollen loves past, in her own lifetime
and previouos ones
for she has jorneyed as many a woman, a figurehead bust
at the forefront of her ship
like chakrak Khan she is every woman and also none
she has never been a nun though
she is too passionate, too colourful an exotic butterly
besotted qwixsotic, erotic amazing Amazonain
her blood too spicy and hot - a wastrel to her cause
a sauce pot, a mexiocan dancer or serenina
twirling a light fantastic fire dance
maddened into a tangling of hair and a coughing up of yeasty phlegm
triffid like tendrils of Tarzans grip onto her helpless Jane
slain by the demon of jungle lust
[ (readers dont read this bit) Note to me: find a way to come back to Yorkshire]
she has been on those moors and they have changed her... [end poem with elipstick coz its always good and add mystery]
{ i'll will have to come back to this because my noddles are ready]
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