Biography of karen sinclair
(I am not a writer.... I just like to write)
Just when you think you cannot take anymore
Somebody gives you something you're happy to receive
karen sinclair Poems
Death Of A Tear......
The fresh tear, heavy with meaning and purpose Travels southbound upon my warm skin. Full of reason and pain, I watch Distracted by it's beauty
The small brown nightingale sings From left bough of an insignificant tree He brings not much Just love and a touch
Cold Feet And Other Objects.....
Huddled within a blanket In a camping chair Thats not quite right Blinds down to shade the sleeping
March On March......
I am a swathe of salted tears Spread thin upon brown earth Doused throughout lost years Querying all I'm worth
The waves were subtle As you led me in Half moon Full moon
Purple Glitter.....An Ode To Writers
When blackened skies shroud Purple thoughts are thrust As sprinkles of glitter dust Up through the atmospheric pressure
Melody Of Love
Lay me Amongst the melody that is Mozart Weave his notes in my lank dark hair Spirit me to a world of horses
Once I had a real little seahorse encased in perspex Laying starkly beside a tiny piece of seaweed (which was grey green) Entombed forever Laid majestically out for my lively enquiring five year old eyes to gaze upon
Dandelions And Fairies
If I sat within the downy heather of the beauteous bogland That is Mnt Clanard Southern Ireland Beneath a birch... beside a stream
I Hate Lucy
I met her one blurry New Years eve She who would hang as a glorious ornament, from your sleeve Back in those times of hours, no sand I can picture her (now grasping) your lovely hand
Plucking Daisies..... Sigh Relief......
Adored cherished as one Sistine chapel In time memorial Time has become but a painful itch Which barrs which cuts and scars
The eagle smiles sharply Smartly He knows my need of gently stroked wings Amidst shift shaping rocks
Manitou slides Doppelgänger silhouette Ballet prides Twisted contorted pirouette
The Joy Of Nits
Headlouse dance as agile ballerinas across a small childs skull And believe the truth as im only good at that I havent seen one for a while
The dusty window frames her form
Silhouetting her fragility as evening falls
With hands as gnarled oak
Clasping the unvarnished rocking chair
Her painfully crooked feet gently cause a methodical tone
Upon the now jaded rug...
Hypnotic as time...
Head relaxed tilted window bound her mind caresses visions of times