Serpentine

Writing is a blessed curse, Imagination veils my sight; Transforming most mundane of things to figmentations of pure fright.   Winding creeper takes on fangs, Becoming Mowgli-seeking Carr, The jungle spreads beneath my feet With vipers seeking flesh to Mar.   Honey-tongued and forked mischief, Whispers of forbidden fruit Whilst over growing temples peep from…

Kiss

  When vapour trails cross paths, I wonder, do they kiss?   © Tom Tide 2016

Ode retold

Car tail-lights are red, Folks language is blue; I wait at the Bus stop with thoughts just of you. With my hands blue with cold I see others see red; rain makes most folks just long for their bed. Not I (well, not yet), For I savour your eyes, Your words and your thoughts, and…

Out of Doors

Tantalising passageways going nowhere. All still, save for pirouetting feathers shed from lofty inhabitants. The whole place crying out to be made whole again.   © Tom Tide 2016  

Self Portrait

This is me. No grandiloquent celebration- Just a snapshot on a cold morning. Selfie? I loathe the word. No this is me making a record through a record through a mirror through a lens. This is me today. Right now. Hello.   © Tom Tide 2016  

Momentary Mindfulness

  No, not just a bloom. A swift, carving rising winds; Joyful in freedom.   ©  Tom Tide 2016    

Shepherd’s Warning

The day is but newly struck. Blushing in its naïveté, yet still A Brave New World. Most still abed: whether Messiah or monster (and everybody else in between). What a difference today could make, In its increments of pivoting hands. Shifting digits. Whatever. I take you, day. For richer, for poorer. In rank sickness or…

Beacons

This is a poem about smoking. Burning through a pack of Ten. Ten moments in time. Ten streams of conciousness. Ten pauses.   The first? A smoke screen hiding inner fears. The second blasts the fear, yes every trace. Third one  blows up clouds that squeeze out ashen tears; Fourth a signal, steeling jaw in…

Alchemy

Dave Fieldhouse is an alchemist. He takes separate elements and materials and transforms them in to something beautiful, complex and valuable. Priceless, in fact. He is a landscape photographer who creates strikingly beautiful images of land and sea, in all of its voluptuous and craggy forms. Every one of his images speaks to me in…

Sleeping in the Day

It is hide and seek for adults. Blue light- sunlight shuttered, save for bordered slivers. Cool sheets. Head laid softly to rest after a sleepless night. Outside, Gates creaking: foot-falling, letter-slotted sounds. Thrum of engines, Whisps of songs from car radios Diminishing. Snatches of converstion. Dust motes dancing in the light shafts of the window….

All I ask

All I ask, Today: For myself, more and more, Is less and less. Nothing, save The chance to rest In the here and now Entirely. To feel grass upon my back, and Gaze at whirling birds carving the sky, With my face in the sun. Only this. To be calm, and drink in the now….

Comb thy Noddle Part 1

To everybody else, I was thrown at Petruchio out of sheer rage. Naught else. Yet I knew the truth of the matter. As I was hurled through the air I knew it was not rage but lust. I was the seat of her pleasure, and she would not have thrown me away lightly. God be…