Ginge Reads

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash Watch the greens blush in crimson hues, Drunk off summer's waned warmth. Kisses on windburned cheeks That dim an African sunset  Are stained with autumn's whispers. And leaves The colour of her eyes Are wakened by the crispness of the October morn. The world reflected in a single raindrop Carrying her shy smile. Keep these moments between the pages They are not pressed leaves, They will not crumble.

The moon just as paper when a torch sines behind, A puppet display with characters from the mind. The stars how they wink, it's that alien again! Yet it moves and you spot that it's just an aeroplane. At the end of the rainbow, a pot full of gold! With leprechaun guarding, or so it's been told. While a stick in a forest is magic to own, And a rock from the seaside, a dinosaur bone. A monster which lurks to make dinner of me, Just shadows of clouds that float in the sea. Then fairies who leave a gift from their dance, Just a circle of mushrooms that grew there by chance. Vampires will get you and soon they will bite, Or is it those bugs that nip you at night? And then there's the dust that Santa Claus drops, A pot full of glitter you see in the shops. The world can be strange, and seem upside down As an adult grown up, with no mystery around. Imagination dwindles, the magic may fade, But children will teach it's just magic mislaid. Pho...

A team of opposites, with identical differences Red haired and independent Both reflections in a house of mirrors. Ying and Yang, Fire and ice, A sister and a friend But not the same person twice. Photo by Marc Schaefer on Unsplash

Strawberries, Photo by Cole Keister on Unsplash far sweeter than those we ate in the spring, giggles held in a cloud of smoke, chapped lips, calloused fingertips, the gentle weight of eyelids resisting sleep, frosted leaves settled on grassy corners, painted toenails, chocolate dusted with gold and unevenly halved, fragments of amber blowing past the car, hazy glass, upturned snow globes, blue eyes, and you: pale skinned and divine.

So many hearts on the love lock bridge 'Pont des Arts', Paris Photo by Dietmar Rabich via Wikimedia Commons   Fallen from sleeves and onto the rail Reflected back in moonlit waters In a Paris fairy-tale. Rain-kissed rust splatters the oldest Announcing the age of love Padlocks fixed those years ago Now often thought of. Seven hundred thousand and counting On each, engraved a love note Of three words and a special date, Or an overused Shakespeare quote. A key tossed into the river Of the Parisian Seine Creating heart-shaped ripples As it floats downstream and then Settles in the mud, Clinking against the others. Those thousand chunks of metal A symbol of the lovers. And now the iron begins to bend Under the weight of l'amour, Railings balance on the edge of danger For tourists who adore. Heritage defaced by fashion For the sake of an Instagram post An icon attacked by love locks A fact ignored by most. The waters turn a sh...

Photo by Plush Design Studio from Pexels Last night I tore out all the poems that I wrote about you and made them into paperchains. Hours of the night threaded together with your name to decorate the blues. Hanging from the chandelier twisting around table legs collecting on the sill. P apery memories gone soggy with salt water. Your face, so many times in black and white, skipping through the rhythm and humming indifference. In the morning the pages were clear, shaken from the shackles with glue that could not hold N ow the broken chains fall at my feet .

We planted the sun in the horizon, A hazy blend of yellows and blues, Gently cupped the soil over it And watched it bloom into a new day. Now enchanting little raindrops of light Bud on the surface Like promises for the coming years. Something infinite will take root here: A future, and in it, we are together. Remember that we and Mother Nature are co-creating this vivid dream. Let's not kill it. Photo by Dawid Zawiła on Unsplash

Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash Monkey see, monkey do. Are you related? A copy of a copy, a duplicate me Blink twice, No, you're not imagining it. Shadow and brightness of the mirror view Those slightly distinct reflections And such perfect impressions In a synchronised pair. One and the same but nothing alike, Double up She's always right If I pinch you can she feel it?

Photo by Rakshith Reddy on Unsplash Light glints down on indigo bunting Burning bright on a wire And I watch As the sun warms her wings, Her tiny frame of vivid colour Soaking up the day. She greets the sun anew,  Like an old friend rarely seen But loved always. She leaps. Enclosed in lightness of flight, She has never owned shadow And takes to the skies with arrow grace. Every move she makes Reverberates like a musical note from a key Privileged enough to have been played. She puffs her front and sings like she ought. Would she sing for me, If she got caught?

If the world is my oyster then I must have an allergy to shellfish. And I don't mean to sound a cynic, Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash But my head is a prison with just the occasional conjugal visit. So I don't want to waste myself with things much bigger than those on the bookshelf. Been there, done that, but the t-shirt was just too tight For a loner with paperback eyes. Now I’m left To think and thoughts and less wuthering of heights Where conversational stares can’t hurt me. Crack the spine. I’m running through pages, splitting their seams, Stalking fiction and forgetting dreams. Paper-faced friends with inky backs are enough to escape the world and its crap While the monsters of the mind Refuse to fall quiet. I ’m not waving, I’m drowning, Frowning, clowning, counting down the days, While stone cold stoned, the world watch away.

Photo by Eugenia Maximova on Unsplash Famed is her beauty but what good Is beauty when trapped in a mirror? The paint on her lips as red as blood, She draws nearer. She touches finger to rose-dusted cheek and grazes porcelain skin, In finest tones she can speak But no beauty within. A clamp around her lashes On her lids unnatural hues And on her pulse points there’s lashings Of Chanel, overused. Love is the enemy of a sculpted face Its touch simply too strong For a brittle mind to embrace For too long. So she sits and stares… The fanatical fairest of them all With hourglass heart and eyes of pearl. The mirror mirror on the wall A cold replication of a vainglorious girl. 

Photo by Osman Rana on Unsplash Mechanic blasts of warmth, the wind it whines with heavy handed gusts from platform three. I dare to step over the yellow lines, To draw the more attention back to me. Sat slumped atop a polyester case that’s rain soaked and empty. Nails bitten red, someone should recognise this broken face as the guilty one that fled. The train it comes and empties out the crowd, and I am left with spotlight to my crime. A year of running, stitching my own shroud, this criminal deserves to do his time See me, call them, then please lock me away, For I am tired of acting as the prey

Photo by Sven Scheuermeier on Unsplash Starry skies and gentle song Turns the cold heart sweet, While blackened skies and misty eyes Flash headlights in the street.   The dark can lend you romance,  A borrowed jacket when it's cold, Heart skips a beat, lie chest to cheek, Into his arms enfold.   Light reflecting off the moon, Like torch through paper thin, Lashes blink as glasses clink, A fire burns within.   A subtle glance and rosy face From whispers softly sung, Candle light in the black of night A billion stars among.   Colours light the canvas sky That can't be seen in day, A firework show sets you aglow And takes your breath away.   Elsewhere shadowed faces lurk And slash at all four tyres. Your vision fades and rain cascades, Against you they conspire.   Darkness covers up the sins And hides the guilty face, The drunk that crashed, the girl abashed The star that meets disgrace.   The laughter's ...

A masterpiece of the city’s own making, the art of the common man, An artist’s pride, youth's expression, in the hands of a simple spray can. Layers of history, each covering the last with cracks on peeling brick, The city’s homemade gallery, fifty long years thick. Its here they share their inner selves, both dark and light the same, Expressions made in colourful thought, concrete that’s been reclaimed. A palimpsest of people’s lives, hiding truth and love and folly, The city’s homemade gallery, the canvas of a dark back alley. A blur of voices turns to white noise, a patchwork full of mystery, Worldly woes forgotten fast as paint conceals their history. The people’s words and portraits become lost against the crowd, The city’s homemade gallery, a collage sketched aloud. How a simple swipe of paint can make a city sing, Make run-down buildings into art and make the artist king. Statements of a generation, a melange of their art, The city’s homemade gallery, dire...