The Novelist

Princess Purple

Hers is a beauty of eloquent pen,

Trilogies etched with a holy amen;

Fragile and humble, she offers her soul,

Teardrops her parchment, resilience her scroll.

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She Chose

Clematis on fence

The day she chose

to lift her face to the sun,

love her own skin,

embrace her true colours,

she bloomed.

When Columbines Cry

columbine tear

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When columbines cry

their sorrows,

reduced to silvered pearls,

slide down emerald cheeks,

trace Earth’s veins,

disappear beneath quilted soil

and sleep

until they rise

again.

 

 

 

 

 

Wings

young gull

 

His love was a fledgling –

awkward in its moulting,

a pupation of sorts.

His grasp of her essence

floundered in the reeds

where others moved sure;

progress screeched

and twittered, juvenile

in proportion and quality.

But true love has a way

of making a man;

where finesse was lacking,

perseverance found flight –

I still see them soaring, now and then,

where time and age cannot clip their wings.

 

Sleeping Beauty

baby iris

 

Long has she lain,

poisoned by an apple

that should never have reached Eden.

The kiss, when it comes,

stirs,

wispy, a dream that eludes

upon rising;

it revives the tender recollection

that she waits,

not for an awakening,

but for a

Resurrection.