It’s been a productive day… As well as cooking a Thai Green curry for my folks and myself I have finished the first draft of the first volume of the Poetrybox series! I am very happy with it! I hope to have more news soon… Until then, here’s a screen shot of one of the poems. 
Poetry
Amnesia
Tracing the outline of the mountains,
The snow-topped trees with my finger,
Feeling winter thaw away;
Imprints and passports are rights of passage here.
Tumbling through leaves, the feathered bird
Flutters and falls, catching the cold air
Like frozen lakes in your dreams.
The hard ground recalls a winter howl
And the ages of Alexandra beckon you back –
Back to a time when you were king,
And she, once a scarlet fever upon your brow,
Is now the queen of your heart.
But kings are selfish beasts,
Burdening the heart of such delicate birds,
And they, in their lust forget bones are brittle
And hearts do break, and queens are still princesses underneath.
Handle your love like a flightless bird,
Offering your hand to sit and catch a fall
Or a slip upon the icy world.
Be not a king, be a boy, and she shall forever be your girl.
© Phillip Mellor 2015
This Is Who We Are
This is who you’ve always been,
The wind between the branches;
Bright blossom in the fields of spring;
The moon’s low light at night.
The echo ‘tween the tall top trees
And the skyscrapers dancing.
Within the silent sighs of the breathing sea
Your home is where you love.
And this, this has always been the place,
Next to the lake and the mountain side;
By the sea and the forest free
Is where your heart resides.
Love, love is just a way to be,
A beating heart in time;
And I, I have always been yours
And you have always been mine.
Phillip Mellor 2015
Roads Across The Sea
We stretch our arms out to reach the borders,
Over water and under sky we catch the breeze.
I place my heart lightly on your dreams,
To see if it melts, to see how it feels
For just one lifetime to love and be loved
Without hesitation, without resignation.
If there was a road over the sea,
I would walk to you, my love,
Counting each step like a mantra,
Feeling the salty water beneath my soles.
And I know you would be there waiting,
My queen, my little raven wrapped in ebon robes.
Phillip Mellor 2015
Goodnight Vincent
As well as putting three new books together I have been recording some of my work lately. This is, Goodnight Vincent, from my book Bones and a Broken Hearts
*note train noise happened at just the right time so I left it in for dramatic effect!!
springtime bird
there’s a bird singing in my garden
the notes of the new day sun,
an equinox of the love that rises
through our hearts as one.
his song fills our senses to mingle
and merge with these parallel shifts.
a cornucopia of wonder waits
at the borders of our fingertips.
there’s a bird singing in my garden
he sings his song only for you.
he has followed my arrangement so perfectly
the colour he sings of is new.
there’s a bird singing in my garden
with no idea what he’ll become.
yet he knows that is heart has been captured
by the spring that has finally come.
phillip mellor 2015
heart-kiss
your naked breath upon my skin,
hands wound tight like galaxies spiralling.
landscapes crumble into silent streams
where whispers melt with echoes.
dreams in the ethereal sky star a still sea
and ripple the veil in front of my eyes.
forgive me if my mouth is speechless at this,
but the sweep of your soul has me caught.
there is no time to tell you all that i ought,
so take this kiss from my heart as your own.
and know that the ways we travel are vast
and wherever you wander, you are never alone.
even the night cannot keep us apart,
its vast mountains and seas are useless at this.
for i am the breeze, the sun and the stars,
always brushing lightly at your heart.
i am the waves, the storm and the sea,
the warmth that you feel in each coffee sip.
i am your heart and i am your soul,
even the wind, breathless at your lips.
phillip mellor 2015
scatterings
the carrion crow of my soul takes his nightly seat,
like clockwork, around midnight he claims his post.
dedicatedly he picks at the meat, as one dead eye fixes me.
a caw shrieks the stillness like a yellow streak of moon,
with this, the memories of you begin their feast.
your hair falling like autumn leaves,
scattering colours on a painters palette.
upon the green lawn, your orange blossom song
like a dawn of lifetimes remembering the breeze.
your breath upon my face and your heart beating.
your eyes like emerald dreams.
and the shadows merge with the light,
the clock ticks to-and-frow
and these tired lids lift the sun.
i wake to find you gone,
with nothing left but the picked bones of love.
no song, no dream, no you and no crow;
just this body, a scattered offering to the thunder god.
© phillip mellor 2015
seven terracotta jars
a stumble in the woods, a wanderer
weighted down with collectables —
a twig from the hair of a goddess;
the gilded gleam from the blade of a knight;
seven single tears in seven terracotta jars;
a thousand lifetimes imparted to his heart —
yet here, dust and desert remains.
bones dried up in outrageous heat,
yet he staggered on, dragging one foot
then the other,
defiant.
thoughts were useful once,
he had kept them like memories of the old land,
yet here on the flat-baked wastelands, they were his master;
they kept him well, in solitude,
they were the shadow that prodded him before sleep;
the night-men whistling down the long corridor outside his chamber.
he became sick, sleepless,
desperately clutching to his collectables,
to his pasts, to his hopeless hope of home.
one night a fever struck so hard
he was bound and lost in swirling seas.
hours passed.
days.
weeks.
and he rode those waves like Ahab, clinging to the whale.
the conjurer appeared somewhere after three, or was it four?
time made no sense here, it was not liner,
it was vapour scattered on the breeze.
the demons danced around his head,
laughing like harlots,
cackling candle flames about is being.
was this hell?
was this, limbo?
when finally he let go of it all —
the memories, the tales from the thousand year storm.
everything he had so diligently collected,
when he opened his eyes,
was strewn like worthless trinkets on the tide,
and he, on the shore woke to starlight
and seven terracotta jars waiting to be filled.
© phillip mellor 2015
New Collection(s)…
phillipmellor 