Patterns -
Endless possibilities
Of escapism.
Carpets, curtains,
Wood grain - anything
Patterned...
A shift
In my reality.
Aah...amazing characters
With friendly faces
Smiling at me,
Embedded
In varied
Art forms. They
Have been
My saviours
Since childhood:
My therapists...
White net curtain:
I see
In delicate leaves
A femme fatale -
Large eyes
And pouting lips.
'I could teach
You a thing
Or two,' she whispers
Through falling rain,
'About sensuality
And self-worth -
About how
Not to let
Men treat you!'
Walnut door:
A wise
Tawny Owl
Peers out -
A sagacious being
Who guides me safely
Through life's
Triumphs and pitfalls,
Transforming
Feelings of inner doubt
Into certainty
And optimism.
Wilton rug:
Two Victorian boys
And a little girl
In poke bonnet.
Their open innocence
Is irresistible.
'Come and play!'
They call to me, hands
Reaching out
Of red and blue
Woven strands.
'Stop taking
Life so seriously!
It was never meant
To be that way.'
And I'm pulled
Into their
Symmetrical world,
Where they teach
Me to play
As I've never played before -
Until I clearly see
The patterns
Running through my life.
Whether this is imagination,
Wish-projection
Or real no longer matters;
For all seriousness
Is lifted
From a burdened heart.
Options are infinite here,
In these spaces
Between the fibres.
Am I flower,
Leaf, vine,
Red berry?
Or am I none of these -
Just a poet
Teetering on the brink of insanity?
Endless possibilities
Of escapism.
Carpets, curtains,
Wood grain - anything
Patterned...
A shift
In my reality.
Aah...amazing characters
With friendly faces
Smiling at me,
Embedded
In varied
Art forms. They
Have been
My saviours
Since childhood:
My therapists...
White net curtain:
I see
In delicate leaves
A femme fatale -
Large eyes
And pouting lips.
'I could teach
You a thing
Or two,' she whispers
Through falling rain,
'About sensuality
And self-worth -
About how
Not to let
Men treat you!'
Walnut door:
A wise
Tawny Owl
Peers out -
A sagacious being
Who guides me safely
Through life's
Triumphs and pitfalls,
Transforming
Feelings of inner doubt
Into certainty
And optimism.
Wilton rug:
Two Victorian boys
And a little girl
In poke bonnet.
Their open innocence
Is irresistible.
'Come and play!'
They call to me, hands
Reaching out
Of red and blue
Woven strands.
'Stop taking
Life so seriously!
It was never meant
To be that way.'
And I'm pulled
Into their
Symmetrical world,
Where they teach
Me to play
As I've never played before -
Until I clearly see
The patterns
Running through my life.
Whether this is imagination,
Wish-projection
Or real no longer matters;
For all seriousness
Is lifted
From a burdened heart.
Options are infinite here,
In these spaces
Between the fibres.
Am I flower,
Leaf, vine,
Red berry?
Or am I none of these -
Just a poet
Teetering on the brink of insanity?
Maybe, rather than being "none of these", you are in fact "all of these"...wonderful poem.
ReplyDeleteDo you know, Keith, I think I could be...depending on my mood of course!! Hahaha:D
DeleteMany thanks:)
I always see faces in patterns. In fact, you're the first person besides myself that I've heard talk about this ( and with such beauty!) I've never taken it a step further than noticing them, always. In the tile on my bathroom floor, in the curtains, couch cushions etc. I wonder what they could tell me if I paid such close attention. I really loved this, Ygraine! xo
ReplyDeleteHow wonderful to find another person who can see these amazing characters!
DeleteI swear they really do have a life of their own... haha:D
Thank you so much, Nyssa...for believing...:)
xxx
Enjoyed... Seeing patterns where they are obscured is a gift..
ReplyDeleteThank you, Anthony.
DeleteI do believe it is a gift...apart from those faces I sometimes see that could be described as less friendly, but more demonic...I prefer not to look at the curtains in my son's room! Haha:D
Options are infinite here, in these spaces between the LINES that you have patterned. You're a poet for sure. Teetering? Aren't we all? :)
ReplyDeleteOh thank you Gnome, that is so encouraging!
DeleteI can't believe a poet of your calibre is teetering though...I have always greatly admired your clear perception...:)
Just a poet
ReplyDeleteTeetering on the brink of insanity?
and teetering on the brink of genius, too!
The first speaks for us all,
the second for the favoured few.
This poem nails it for you in my view.
Thank you, Dave!
DeleteWow...what a compliment...You are so kind. Hope I can live up to that!:)
"Am I flower,
ReplyDeleteLeaf, vine,
Red berry?
Or am I none of these -
Just a poet
Teetering on the brink of insanity?"
You're a poet, made of the above! :-)
Greetings from London.
Many, many thanks.
DeleteThink my imagination gets so carried away sometimes that I'm no longer sure who or what I am! Haha:D
Yes...guess that is the brink of madness!!
Oh, you're definitely a poet.
ReplyDeleteThe part that struck a chord with me the most is about a burdened mind being incapable of seriousness. I thought that was just me- I just go batshit crazy when I'm sad. Lovely stuff.
I guess we poets are the only ones who can truly understand and empathise with each other...I go crazy when I'm sad too. My scribblings are my only salvation then!
DeleteMany thanks for your encouragement...I so appreciate it.:)
Simply fabulous Ygraine, You are a poet and an excellent one too! Probably teetering on the brink of insanity as well like all artistic and creative geniuses! Crazy is good!
ReplyDeleteRose...your words of encouragement mean more to me than I can possibly express.
DeleteThank you...thank you so much.:)
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