Those first kisses beneath wood smoke and starswill stay with us forever, exploding with capriciouspiquancy that still lingers, effervescent in our mouths.The drought had broken like an ocean wave,a tang of North Sea air, ice-cold and delicious,and all we wanted was to drown in our embrace,heartbeats echoing, rhythmic and auspicious,lost in wood smoke kisses, stars […]
Tag: Joni Mitchell
I stick these pages together with blue
The blue-tack tucked in the side of the drawer reminds me of days when I listened to your voice non-stop. My younger self wrote your lyrics with a blue ink italic calligraphy pen on index cards; I even copied artwork from album sleeves, shaded in with rainbow-coloured pencils. Leaves unfurled and fell with your smoky […]
Joni’s Colours
I listen to her voice paint a light and rainbow coloured folk song about a child whose eyes were bright but would never see, of crayons, trees and love. The colours flow through a Chelsea morning, with crimson beads and yellow curtains and a taxi, as if she’s singing just for me. A little green […]
Wonderful Alien
Wide-eyed and full of wonder, you hold my hand and guide me through your world. I can only blunder, an ancient alien who has lived here too long to appreciate a single leaf, a muddy pebble or the sun on water. Now I have your eyes to discover the beautiful among the fearful, forget for […]
Mapping Memories
I start to trace the map of her face, the contours of her cheeks, pools of blue eyes, her valleys and her peaks, drawing from distant memories, trying to forget more recent days, colouring the sunshine hours, and feeling her warmth. Kim M. Russell, 2017 My response to dVerse Poets Pub Tuesday Poetics: Musical Muse […]
Twisted
When I lived in London, I owned a silver Mini Ritz with a brilliant sound system. During the summer holidays, I would take my daughter to work with me as I had a colleague with a girl of the same age and they would play together at her house, which was just down the road. […]
Ludwig’s Friday Morning
No tongue in the bell and the fishwives yell but they might as well be mute. The composer cannot hear his maidservant arguing about a basket of fresh trout or the striking of hooves on the cobbles outside. As far as he is concerned there is no outside. He lives in a world of muffled […]
writing in north norfolk 