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Tag: art
My Poem for Valentine’s Day
It depends on which cards land, ‘cos the devils in the deal,
The King and Queen of Hearts are what you wish to feel,
So, pick them up, fan them out, take a look and see,
There’s the Jack of Clubs, his grinning back with glee,
And sitting just behind him is the ace of spades, bad luck,
Like the hand life’s dealt you; they don’t give a flying fuck.
The King and Queen will only be in your nightly dreams
And the Heart you so desire is much father than it seems.
“I’ll raise you ten,” he says, with an evil sneer,
You want to tear his face off, rip it from ear to ear,
Your watch your last silver dollar as it rattles into the pot
That’s it, your all up, it’s the last you’ve got.
Just one slender chance, you willingly embrace
Because nothing can now fill what is an empty space.
And nothing will leave you just about level,
Until you sell your vacant soul to Beelzebub the Devil.
You lose again, just like every fucking day,
So get up from the table, again you walk away.
Tomorrow is Valentines, a day of true romance,
When lovers reveal their passions, hoping for a chance.
Where wine and chocolates and bouquets of red flowers bloom,
And a thousand pairs of feet scuttle off to some hotel bedroom.
Where the lost and lonely sit and weep, in darkened empty homes
And stare at the blank glass screens of their silent mobile phones.
Where your life’s gambles lay in ruins upon the green baize
And those who’ve lost wander the streets in a lonesome daze.
When love is some distant recall which is hard to find,
Something fleeting, passing, just escaping your mind,
Where the fallen Jack of Hearts lays upon the floor
With one arm raised, finger-pointing, showing you the door.
© Paul White 2015
Hey, why not check out ‘Teardrops and White Doves’ a collection of my poetry. Available in a fully illustrated, full colour, Hardcover book direct from my printers, or as a standard Paperback from Amazon
Behind the Paint
Behind the paint, a ‘flash reality’ from Paul White.
Hands behind her back, the zipper hisses as a snake disturbed. Black gown slithering to the floor; a crumpled heap of diamantes and silk.
No more the filaments of fabric obscuring flesh blemished from the harshness of years.
Sitting at her dresser she stares into the mirror.
Lies.
Green flecked eyes reflecting paradoxical enigmas; Alice looking through the glass.
A thousand personas. Fractured self-refracted by perception. Splintered shards of being, gathered within feeble parchment.
Each is distinct; each is separate yet conjoined.
She wipes away the waxen red of her lips. Fullness fading; now smudges of sallow cracked pink, pastel shadows echo a thousand falsehoods spoken.
Fake eyelashes flutter, black spiders spiralling earthwards. Dead expectations. Used. Discarded.
Cotton wool pads smear shimmering sparkles of promises lost away from tired eyes.
Colours of dreams imagined, merge into streaks of disarray as hope and prospect mingle, as indistinct as soft falsehoods once whispered with bated breath.
Cleanser washes the city dirt, the dry cream and cracking powder from skin too long expose to fret and frown. Crow’s feet creep, long tendrils reaching out towards throbbing temples of greying hair.
Solitaire earrings, diamonds of love, earlier given, long past. Another life, still worn in optimistic anticipation that futures destiny may yet smile once more, gently set upon the shelf, a symbol of remembrance and hope alike.
Both to be cherished.
Now naked faced, laid bare, open, soul exposed. Shadows of age, ravages of time, wisps of days past disclosed. The harsh light revealing honesty.
Nothing now hidden, concealed, camouflaged.
Life exposed, fortitude eternal.
© Paul White 2015
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