Umbrellas

This isn’t a poem. This isn’t a story. This is about an umbrella or a page of umbrellas or an umbrella in the sky or an umbrella in the rain. Um…. Where’s that umbrella.? Where’s that little place of shelter in the storm? Where’s that little hope against the dark skies? Where’s that kind of mushroom shape, that dome, those soft curves, that portable rooftop? In dreams and wishes, I’m sending you another one. I hope it finds you. This isn’t an answer or a solution. I’m sorry about that. It’s just a little hoping rella, with an Um for I don’t know everything but a B, for I hope you can be brave and I think you can. Too much Disney can be a bit annoying with plastic cups and supersized coca cola combo deals and all that, but I still love Mary, the original one on account of Mary May Jones my Great Grandmother. That’s a real Poppins. I hope she might pop in with some kind of kite heart, like a ghost wearing dancing shoes or something like that. 

This isn’t a poem. This isn’t a story. This is about a lot of umbrellas drawn all over a page. It’s about something to hold onto with a candy cane shaped handle, even if life isn’t feeling too sweet. It’s a little hope. It’s the shape of waves on the edges, an ocean, take a breath in and out and in and out. I’m hoping for you some better days. I’m hoping for you parasols in the summer too. Don’t give up. No kind of jewels or stolen silver service forks or golden numbers are as big as Love itself.  This is about those silver ribs all covered in rainbows, a travelling Umbra, a travelling flower shape, a little hope… 

This isn’t a poem. This doesn’t rhyme today because sometimes you might lose that sing song kind of happy metre because of a storm, a really bad one, a really sad one. This isn’t a story. This is about Umbrella’s drawn all over a page. This is about beautiful colours, this is for you, this is a little hope… It’s for you 

Chocolates

Chocolates made from me 

Are more you see 

Than sweets and tea 

Are more you see than 

Milk and beans 

Are made of dreams 

And bluebirds dear 

Are ever but near 

And Mixed with a tear 

Yet never you fear 

For there is time 

In every rhyme

For the sublime 

Imagination

kind of

Station…

Where time 

Does hasten

Towards 

hearts and starts

and apple carts 

for pies and charts 

that say the weather 

might be wild 

or sweet and mild. 

That place upon 

The train line

Without a sign

But in your

Head it’s there 

With daisey’s

At the fair

Or a little bear 

Made of patches 

And mending

And  sending 

You honey bees 

Across the seas. 

Chocolates made from me

Are more you see 

Than sweets and tea 

Where can they drive you?

To a red painted shoe or two 

To an over the rainbow 

To a marvellous show 

Where can they fly you? 

To a sweet centred hue 

To the softly goes place 

 Of  ribbons and lace 

All tied round a tin 

That might just win 

Some more 

Smiles.