Beardovski

Poet, iPhoneographer, Motorcycle enthusiast

[andysmerdon]

I often sit and think about things. Sometimes a music note or riff catches my attention and my thought are captured by the music.

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these hands

These hands have been aroundThese hands have held a newbornThese hands have touched with love These hands have gestured happiness These hands have held a swordThese hands have served the foodThese hands have held a compassThese hands have shown the wayThese hands have signed, I love youThese hands have said goodbyeThese hands have called you backThese hands have held the doorThese hands have…

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Field of Dreams

The hammock swings ever so gentlyHemp rope knots creak expressivelyMy mind wandersChasing the dragonThrough a field of dreams. Almond eyesSilk curtainsPaper fansA bone pipe. Enabling my soul to be carriedFloating, above the blossomsThrough clouds of incenseAnd gentle touches asDamp cloths cool my heated body. A moan escapesA smile appearsA shallow sighAnd the light fades.

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Papettte

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Murmur 9

Through the miasma of political rhetoricA murmur of truth can be heardCarried on a zephyrLaden with tears and fearAnd the whole world shrugs

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Sometime

I don’t believe in a godThere are too many to chose oneI don’t respect a bookI dog-ear the pagesI don’t often smileI carry it on the insideI do believe in humanityEven though it lately lacks spiritualityI am a voracious readerI leave finished books at bus stopsI am always politeBy being always quietI don’t like fried eggs with tomato I am reminded of too many things I don’t like to go out at…

[andysmerdon]

Beardovski turned 12 today!

[andysmerdon]

Wrong

Capable hands hold a rifle.Capable hands hold a pen.Capable minds can do both.So why isn’t peace possible? These thoughts trouble meand steal my sleep,as I lay in my first world bed,listen to the soft breath of my partner,fresh from an evening shower,sated by my first world meal,comfortable after medicationto ease my first world knee injury. In my first world lifeI cannot know the painof losing…

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Apricity

The warmth of a winter sun

Sitting before the fireA deep torpor descends.These early days of winterAs night steals moreOf the days sunlight,I find myself debating -Do I need to dressLayer upon layer Of clothes and scarvesJust to travel the half mile Between home and grocer? Do I need the canned beefThe potatoes The coffee beans?Oh for twenty minutes apricityWhile chopping woodTo feed these hungry flames. I lurch between…

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Catastrophise

I planted a tree a couple of days agoA Silver BirchMy wife’s favouriteIt was in the groundand looking goodWithout warningMy back just seizedOh shitHere we go againPain starts immediately And the darkness sneaks inWhy did I bother i thinkI’ll never see the tree grownNever sit in its shadeNever get to walk by Touch the trunkFeel the leavesI spent the next few days insideWith my laptopPages open for…

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The Letterbox

So I fell on my sword It wasn’t entirely her fault anyway even though we both laughed during the planning I don’t see the problem really It’s not like we broke a Ming vase It was a letterbox And to be honest That box was begging for it All shiny and just big enough To take a good size cracker And a mozzie coil timer Maybe the neighbours letterbox Wasn’t the ideal choice, in hindsight Ah…

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Another Day

In the winter of a life, Sunrises appear more spectacular, Full moons shine with extra brilliance, Night time seems much longer, Yet time flashes by. As I stroll in this sunrise, In the winter of my life - These thoughts surround me. Like the golden leaves Covering the pathways and benches. Taking a seat beneath a massive Oak I watch the leaves fall around me as if my thoughts are written upon…

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Loss

Do you know that rusty orange colour?It forms on an axeIf it’s left out overnight. That’s the colour of the sauceOn my burgerThis lunch time. Do you know the pale cream colour?It’s like the sesame seedon my burger bun. That’s the colour of that little half moonAt the top of the pretty girlsFingernails. Do you know that blue/black colour?It is the colour of an Asian guys hairWorn with…

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Prostate

His vision fixed beyond the branches barely seeing the verdant fields. His mind refused to hear the twittering Fantail, the wind rustling through golden leaves. Concentrating only on the sound of the stream, trickling between the tree roots. As he waited patiently for his urine to flow.

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Haiku (winter garden)

burnt sienna leaves buried bulbs promise colour my winter garden

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Naturally

Beauty We held each other’s handAnd you kissed me on my lipsOnce upon a timeDolphins find a mate for lifeAnd they make love, just for fun

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My Tree

You may never see A poem lovely as my tree It’s shape It’s shade It’s beauty For me alone. No picture captured by my phone. For only In my memory Can this vision be preserved. My Tree

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