karen sinclair

The fresh tear, heavy with meaning and purpose
Travels southbound upon my warm skin.
Full of reason and pain, I watch
Distracted by it's beauty
...

The small brown nightingale sings
From left bough of an insignificant tree
He brings not much
Just love and a touch
...

Huddled within a blanket
In a camping chair
Thats not quite right
Blinds down to shade the sleeping
...

I am a swathe of salted tears
Spread thin upon brown earth
Doused throughout lost years
Querying all I'm worth
...

When blackened skies shroud
Purple thoughts are thrust
As sprinkles of glitter dust
Up through the atmospheric pressure
...

The waves were subtle
As you led me in
Half moon
Full moon
...

Lay me
Amongst the melody that is Mozart
Weave his notes in my lank dark hair
Spirit me to a world of horses
...

If I sat within the downy heather of the beauteous bogland
That is Mnt Clanard
Southern Ireland
Beneath a birch... beside a stream
...

I met her one blurry New Years eve
She who would hang as a glorious ornament, from your sleeve
Back in those times of hours, no sand
I can picture her (now grasping) your lovely hand
...

Headlouse dance as agile ballerinas across a small childs skull
And believe the truth as im only good at that
I havent seen one for a while
...

Once I had a real little seahorse encased in perspex
Laying starkly beside a tiny piece of seaweed (which was grey green)
Entombed forever
Laid majestically out for my lively enquiring five year old eyes to gaze upon
...

Manitou slides
Doppelgänger silhouette
Ballet prides
Twisted contorted pirouette
...

At last....
Held embryonic pose
No pause for thought just
Sleeping rose
...

The eagle smiles sharply
Smartly
He knows my need of gently stroked wings
Amidst shift shaping rocks
...

A thousand dreams and aspirations dance mischievously
As pink confetti
Upon smiling breeze
Flowing free fall worlds, where children dance barefoot within tinkering
...

Who'd be a woman?
With hours of hair to dry
Chubby and insecure
Certainly i bellow
...

My flesh bothers me... it is mine, it is all i carry with me
Unceremoniously daily
I do not own it
It does not own me
...

Twas sordid that thought
Midwinter handed a lit
Oil lamp
Glowing
...

Mist loiters with poignance
Enchanting near silence
With distant jubilance, beloved wood pigeon
Praise calls Dawn
...

I wanna go to a poetry cafe....

In a pink beret and two giant earrings
Sporting a very serious intelligent expression which is obviously not my own
...