Sky Dancer



http://www.visitsomerset.co.uk/site/explore-somerset/countryside/starling-murmurations

Sky dancer

Like falling leaves from a wind blown tree,
They twist,
turn,
fall,
then tumble free.
Screeching through a sky -
like scythes in flight
or jets that soar in an aerial fight.
All meet up, then
flutter
down,
like ribbons that
drift
from a maypole crown.
Tornadoes of feathers,
spin
and
swirl
making fantasy shapes as they all unfurl.

A whisp of smoke
a rush of noise,

turning as one with grace and poise.
The rustling of a million wings
Nature’s ballet - an awesome thing.
Then a
sudden
drop
and silence reigns
starlings roost in the reed beds again.

Diana Leighton May 2011

A Christmas Eve Poem

Wishing everyone wherever you are a very peaceful Christmas!

Christmas Eve.


So looking childishly into the cold night, I’m waiting. .
  *

Indigo night sprinkled with sparkling stars,
showing the vast echoes of time past.
A horned and cratered smiling moon, beams down,
 lighting up frost made diamante´ paths.
Cobwebs made of fairy lights
drift on a far horizon, whilst
frosted, crystal trees blown
by an icy breath, shake, 
 their branches chiming like tiny bells.
Excited children shiver, whilst
their innocence escapes
through words of wonder as they
 sense the strangeness of this night.
 I seek a hand to hold,
seeing monsters where none exist.
The comfort of warm utterances and voice
turn brains to the texture of velvet.
Worried minds wait to be stroked
into peaceful, calming, gentle waves.
A voice soothes me and talks to me
again -  I  nod off to brief sleep.

For tonight is an indigo night, a magic night.
When the morning rides in it will bring new things
capturing excitement, fresh intentions and joy.
When the morning rides in,
it will usher into the world a childlike day.
This night seeds what will be sacred memory
to be forever recalled in wonder by one
who will no longer be afraid of monsters,
on crisp, sparkling, indigo, Christmas Eve nights.


copyright Diana Leighton 2nd December 2011

Enough wine - she said.





















Enough Wine

Enough wine -  she said
Holding out her hand and
covering the glass.
Id like some more
but I darent,  
I am on my own.
If I have one glass
they will smile indulgently.
If I have two glasses
they will frown and quietly
pass comment on my life.
So I will sit here - floating
on the conversation around me.
Then I shall discreetly pick up
my handbag - which secretly holds
my courage in a clear liquid -
and leave.

Copyright Diana Leighton October 2011
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                        

Skin

 
Speckled egg.

Skin
It was a road map.
The biographical cover of her life.
She lifted her arm to the light,
it was as fragile as a birds wing.
Placing her fingers in front of a candle flame,
as she had done when a child;
she could see the biographical map in 3D
The colours had changed she noted sadly, roads
on the map once blue were now purple, and
her skin was quite speckled with brown spots,
as soft and intricate as those on a hen’s egg,
so delicate, the shell encasing new life,
with hopes for the future, like she had had once.
Now her skin had become like tissue;
a soft shroud enfolding a precious  gift.
She had become the family heirloom, 
carefully wrapped  in her skin
to be stored away for ever.


(C)Diana Leighton, October 2011

Meltdown

Melting woman by ~anyaroseberries

Traditional Art / Paintings / People©2011 ~anyaroseberries
 Meltdown

            She slid softly
                      down the sofa
                           like warm toffee off an apple

            We watched as she
                    slowly
                      melted,
                         and
                             drip
                                by
                                  drip
           became a stressed mess on the floor.
we were used to it.
                        it was all done for attention.

            When she  went into
                        total
                              melt
                                 down,
          and could not scrape herself off the carpet.
           
            We phoned the sweet factory,
                who discreetly came,
                        scooped her up,
                            wrapped her in foil,
                                  and took her  away
                                              in the factory van.

            They say shes clinging to a grapevine now.
                  Being supported
                        by the tender tendrils
                                                of
                                        cheap vin rouge 

copyright Diana Leighton May 2011

Ghost Word




Ghost Word
And as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothings a local habitation and a name.
- William Shakespeare from A Midsummer Night's Dream

I see you every night when I am writing.
 At 10pm
     you stand
        under the sodium light,
           opposite my window.
               I cannot know you as
                  you are diabolical, dark
                    and mysterious.
I see you look at my face
        in the window.
          I am deaf and
              your mouth moves,
                  but I cannot see what you say.
                      A fedora hides your mouth.
                           The Trench coat
                                  hides your soul.
A puff of smoke from your cigar
           twirls up like
               a wraith, and
                  it's scent enfolds me.
                      It says you are Lucifer.
                            You are in my brain, my imagination.
                                  You are my obsession.
  But, I  have no fear  as
       I  know you are an error,
           a misrepresentation.
             You are a ghost word.
                You don't exist.
                                     
Diana Leighton May 2011

1   Ghost Word  -  is a non-existent word entered into the second edition of Webster's New International Dictionary by mistake.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dord

Autumn - Conker Hunting at Kirkstall Abbey





 picture courtesy of 
 http://www.leeds.gov.uk/kirkstallabbey/

A Sunshine Autumn Day to Play at Kirkstall Abbey.


Across the field ahead of us, a ghostly playground lies,
where fingers of dark granite point to copper, autumn skies.
We'll play amongst the ruins of a creepy haunted place;
where thorns on brambles grab us in a witch’s cold embrace.

Tendrils try to catch us so we crawl by on our knees,
then run towards the Abbotts cell, just by the conker trees.
The black of Rooks and Ravens, are they witches in disguise?
They watch us very closely with their beady, shiny eyes.

A north wind nips and pinches us with very icy fingers.
It gives us all our rosy cheeks and causes us to shiver.
Pulling on our coat hoods, we pretend to be like monks.
But if we really saw one, we would run and do a bunk!

We hide behind some bushes and hope we will not spy,
a very hairy, scary monk, with glowing big red eyes.
One stare and we’ll be turned to stone, and so we look away,
maybe we’d feel braver if we came another day.

Children shouting cheerily, we’re playing hide and seek,
hiding round the tombstones when we hear an eerie shriek
“Shush! Listen now!”We hear a sigh… is it a ghostly nun?
Then a creak,  a footstep, from a great big red eyed monk?

We all stop, scared and nervous, then looking at each other,
little Philip runs away, the coward who’s my brother.
He bravely swore he’d get the monk, and fight him face to face
He said he’d got his cowboy gun with all its caps in place.

“I thought we came for conkers.” shouts sister Caroline
From the bottom of a nun’s grave, deep and soft moss-lined
The Abbey house museum clock announces time to go.
Three rosy cheeked heroes, kicking leaves, aim for home.

And so we leave behind the monk with glowing huge red eyes.
He isn’t dead, but next time we will take him by surprise!

A Child in Gaza

















This poem was written after watching this amazing interview with Israeli soldiers on channel 4 news at the beginning of the year - January 2011. It was wonderful to discover humanity in all the dust and rubble,death and sadness in Gaza. Hopefully there will be peace eventually in my lifetime.
 
White Flag in Gaza

I made the white bones of your city,
the skeletal fingers which point to the sky,
I made you homeless and cry.

I fired the white shells into your city,
I fired randomly and I don’t know why,
and I saw your parents die.

I saw the white clouds hanging over your city,
containing the sulphur that burns your skin.
I did nothing about it and that is a sin.

I turned and saw you - the child waving the white flag,
I then saw the whites of your eyes, and the fear within.
I looked and saw you recognised the fear in mine.

I saw all this as a soldier, as a child; and as a man
I was taught to kill, but now I know that I can,
say that I ‘m a human and as a parent I care
about a child with fear in it’s eyes and a frightened stare.
And a child who waves a tattered white flag,
is a child saved in Gaza.

Diana Leighton January 2011













Femme Sole

view from the M5 towards Brean Down, Minehead and Exmoor

Femme Sole


Start the engine,
Hardtop off,
Sun is shining,
Where shall we go?
Maybe the coast
Put on chill out CD
Ahhhhh sooooo cool.

Breeze brushing shoulders,
hair blowing, flowing.
Foot down feeling cool,
heart beating with the beat.
Smell the air… so green,
see the fields… passing.
Fall back into the seat,
driving my life forward
to who knows where.
Mysterious freedom.

Tapping feet,
fingers drum beat
on the steering wheel.
Sun is so warm on my arms
driving has its glorious charms.
Watching the world pass
through polarised glass in
my racing green machine.

Speeding down the road,
going where I want to go.
Music in rhythm
with the wheels.
It doesn’t feel real.
Feeling solitary,
in control.
Rock n’ roll,
Femme sole.#


# French for Woman alone


Nymph





Nymph

Early sun casts rays of gold.
Ethereal ghosts drift in mist,
a flash of light;
will 'o the wisp
whizzes by.

Pan
sits and knits
necklaces of dew filled
pearls, on strands of
silver,
to be worn
by Iris

Iridescent
glints of turquoise;
shimmering rainbows
hover over
wings made
from gossamer ;
She hovers
darts,
d
i
p
s
her tail

casting ripples
in still deep pools.
Metamorphosis
passing time, watches
as nymph
morphs into nymph,
finally
breaking
still water
on warm days
to

\ /
rise,
on glistening iridescence; shimmering rainbows hover over
chiffon wings, seemingly stitched with gossamer .
(m)
(e)
(t)
(a)
(m)
(o)
(r)
(p)
(h)
(o)
(s)
(i)
(s)