I’m planning a long blog about psychology, freebies and the nature of art. Maybe. Or maybe my brain will explode. In which case my family can sell our splatted kitchen wall as a love child out of Jackson Pollock by Damien Hurst.
Meanwhile, here’s a joyful little poem that proves I don’t always write dark stuff. It’s appeared on a calendar and in a MWC anthology.
Come, climb dizzy, heated summer heights,
while eagles soar through lapis skies;
sun-drenched days melt dream-drowned nights;
secret breaths waft wings of butterflies.
Sweet zenith pleasures promise bliss
as bees sip dewy, petalled deeps;
cascade quenched in plunge pool’s kiss;
fern-dappled dells where Magic sleeps.