House of Dreams
(1 & 2)

1

The clematis unfolds
bruised purple on the porch.

Jazz piano:
beneath the black
and white hammers
of ivory keys,
old wounds crack open.

A flight of feathered notes:
this dead heart
sacrificed on the lawn.

I wash fresh stains
from my fingers
with the garden hose.

2

The evening stretches out
a shadow hand.

I feel my heart
squeezed like an orange
by long, dark fingers.

Somewhere,
the whitethroat
trills its guillotine
of vertical notes.

I flap my hands in the air.

They float there,
white butterflies,
amputated
in sunlight’s
net.

Comment:

So, rogermoorepoet.com returns to poetry. Happy days are here again! And Moo is happy too. I need hardly tell you he has been so upset since I started using AI to generate my images for me. Oh dear. He has been very Moo-dy (sic) recently. “But you don’t have a drawing of a clematis,” I told him. “Neither do you,” he replied. “That’s a holly hock.” “At least it’s the right color.” “How about if I find you a purple painting?” He smiled a shy, half smile. “Sure,” I said. “I don’t want to lose the human touch completely.” “I should hope not.”

So he present ed me with this painting. “It’s called u-r-my-sunshine,” his smile lit up the room and we were both happy. Joy to the world – it’s +5C here today and the sun is shining. In my heart. And in Moo’s eyes. We are all glad that joy has not forsaken us!