Sara’s Key

Like the One Ring from ‘Lord of The Rings’
I must be secret, I must be safe
Buried years before this house was built
Interred and innocent until touched by Sara’s hand
My creative flow grows with every captive day
Feel how I softly whisper in your eager ears
Stroke me, find the door and turn the lock
Never stop in your quest to open the gateway
Notice how you almost forgot about me
Lying here at the bottom of your old jewellery box
Only seen in those precious moments by yourself
When you hold me in your hands turning, dreaming
These twenty years and still I speak only to you
Weaving my spell over you, again and then again
As you search to unlock those secret boundaries
Of your unbound imagination where I will set you free
©️ paulmkitchen
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Featured

Shadow & Light

March slides into April as showers wave winter farewell

Days dawn ever lighter, bluebells dock the dells.

One final march through chapel doors, dressed head to toe in black

A last dirge from organ pipes, one more family plaque.

 

Sunny May arrives as swiftly as Shiva’s arrow flies

Church bells peel, confetti fills cotton-clouded skies.

Darkness lurks in shadows, on penitents as they pray,

Smiles adorn faces on children in their play.

 

Winter lies forgotten lost in days just passed

Hearts lifted at village fetes about the green and grassed.

Laughter chimes out often as barbies fire and smoke

Guitar strings stroke the air while sisters smile and joke.

 

© @paulmkitchen

The back garden

Seed searching coal tits flitter in the bushes
A blackbird spied high up on his perch
His hybrid song cuts through the wood-pigeon calls
Whilst the Yorkie revels on his back bathing in fox scent

Bright-bloomed azaleas blush the summer house border
Goldfinches dive to the seed-scattered path
A stray burst of early summer breeze ripples silver birch leaves
Then dies as swiftly as it came leaving a moment’s hush

A neighbours strimmer buzzes like a bee on steroids
Sets the magpies cackling in rowdy disagreement
Midges hover in their mid-air cloud dance
The Noon sun warming my arms as I scribe each word

© @paulmkitchen

Moon

The moon with its great

One-eyed-insect glare

Bathes the garden tonight,

Even the moths seem to be

Hiding from her searchlight glow.

 

Perhaps they have all

Upped wings and beaten

Their way high up toward

This beacon, so low in the sky

On this late summer’s night?

 

Or do they all meet secretly,

Under the leaves and bushes,

Whispering quiet thoughts to each other?

Plotting ways to make contact

With this great eye-in-the-sky.

 

The moon waits patiently

For the sun to end its vigil

Featured

A poem for you if you’ve ever lost in love or lost someone close: how we remember them

 

SOFT-PADDED FOOTPRINTS

Your laughter hides there, waiting patiently

At the far edges of your mouth,

Ready to possess every pore of your face

From the corners of your crows-feet eyes,

Sweeping gently down those familiar

Lemon-scented, quick, curled lips.

Like soft-padded footprints

Stretched across warm desert sand,

Your smile keeps me company

Long after you have left the room,

Leaving me anticipating your arrival

Emerald eyes pin me where I stand.

Wherever I walk, at all gatherings

Of family clans and meeting friends,

Your laughter walks always with me

Even though photos and memory are

My only evidence left behind

Of your ever being here at all.

 

Excerpt from ‘Colours’ a book by himself


I have spent the past six months writing when the mood takes me and now have around fifty poems to seek a publisher.

Whilst this is ongoing I hope you like this sample from three poems:

Blue Wizard

Impossibly blue are you

Azure, turquoise, lazuli-lidded

As you lie, awakening

To the gentle lull of the day 

You lap your waves, your swell

Rolls and washes into the shore

Prayer to the heavens

Yours is the kindly face of one thousand Angels 

Eyes twinkling through inken heavens

Do you marvel at the great Majesty that is man?

Do you worship his magnificence?

Fugue

What if there is purpose to their buzzing?

What if it is more than draft and waft of wings on air?

What if they are Bach’s horns or Beethoven’s even?

Leading us along dawn’s awakening fugue