Beyond the frame.

Paintings hang on our old cottage walls, though they are more than just art to me.
Many a time have I sat, just envisaging myself, in the world those pictures breathe.
I conjure up little helpers in my dreams at night, who help me to explore the wonder, we set out on our plight.
Alternate realities secretly hidden in our minds, that none of our parents will ever find!
The scene is filled with deep reds and oranges and a one very peculiar blackened building; Feeling the hot air on my skin, bare feet on the warm soil, we set off in mists of exploring.
Exploring the horizon, to find we are not alone, and that deep inside this painting are many creature’s homes.
We talked and danced all night with the Menasoga tribe, who live in the desert, and with their wings they can fly;
They fly to another picture hung up across the room, to a beautiful tranquil frame of greys and blues.
Blues so magnificent, their colour as inviting as the most exquisite lagoon; Then William spots a boat thats been abandoned, maybe by pirates, or a well educated batch of baboons!

We set up camp on the shoreline, we dip our feet in the water, the colours so bright.
But until now, I never knew that painting only had one time, so we slept on the sand beneath the sunlight.
After days of searching this remarkable frame, we hungered to see the night stars again.
From out of the frame of which we’d jumped, we fell onto the carpet with an almighty thump!
William’s socks were on my feet, and little Mary’s bangles were scattered endlessly. Jonathon was covered from head to toe in paint, and all of our hair was backcombed in such a ridiculous state.
We clambered onto the window seat and looked up at the sky, to see a shooting star, we quickly closed our eyes!
“Make a wish!” Mary squealed.
And before we new it, we were asleep in our beds.
Resting our tired weary heads.
These paintings hung up on our old cottage walls, are much more than just art to me;
When I grow up, I want to be a painter and from within those paintings I’ll breathe.

 

© Jasmin Elizabeth 2018

Olivia

He looked at her hungrily. The colours of her dress flowing gently side to side in the summer breeze, she was resplendent.
Olivia.
For he was only a boy, she was a woman, her ravishing skin made him blush.
Olivia.
For a boy could not win the heart of such a mature lady.
For a boy could only dream of her mind and physicality.
Olivia.
Her beauteous, bewitching face, so alluring, no words could describe her statuesque features.
Olivia.
Trying to think of a sophisticated first line to say to a first love, a first Valentine.
Though words escaped his young and fruitful mind.
Olivia.
“Olivia why do you make my heart yearn inside?”
“For I know I am just a boy, and you could never be mine.”
“For your lips are such a racy deep red, though I try so hard, how can I control myself, Olivia?”
The Spring came and she looked more beautiful than before.
The Summers refracted light, complimenting her skin, as she sat amongst the daffodils in her violet pinafore.
The Winters frost, brought her skin to a porcelain shade.
Autumn descended, her wrist full of ribbons and bracelets, handmaid.
For suddenly he was not a boy anymore, he was becoming a man.
His hands were bigger, his face was chiselled.
“I have been waiting for you, for all this time. Now I have grown, my love, please say you’ll be mine.”
Olivia.
She looked at him, running her eyes up and down.
No longer the boy who admired her, but a man.
His broad chest and Olive brown skin, felt warm as she moved slowly in.
His face so calm but his heart fluttering. The girl of his dreams.
Olivia.
They stood there in silence looking into each others eyes,
both as people at the same point in life,
both high on their physical delights, both fully grown, and looking divine.
Their bodies itching to get closer into each others skin,
their eyes locked into place, their mouths quivering.
No longer a boy, he pulls her in.
Knowing that he has won. He kisses her.
Finally her keeper.
His heart now belongs to Olivia.

© Jasmin Elizabeth 2018

Tainted

I hope you never love her, like you loved me;
never touch her cheek, whilst you kiss her gently.
I’d fall to pieces so easily, if you were to use the same words you spoke so softly.
Ever questioning what you and her may be.
Who is she?
Does she fulfil you needs better than I did? I tried.
Does her long blonde hair flow nicely to one side?
I hide all my scars under this old carpet of ours, pushed aside.
Do you hear me in the spare room at night? I cry.
Who is she?
I haven’t seen your eyes light up in such a long time.
I couldn’t give you that fire you needed inside. I tried.
Though I know I must be strong, I cant help but break,
when I reminisce about us and the life that we made.
Who is she?
I’ll start looking the other way, as you have now done.
I’ll acknowledge every glance in my direction. You won.
No longer bound to the chains that once held me so tight.
I promised myself that I deserve a better life.
Who am I?
I am the girl that you thought you knew.
I am the girl that would’ve of always loved you.
I am the one that will keep my head held high,
I’ll never speak a bad word. Hold my breath and sigh.
Who am I?
You will remember me, you’ll never forget,
one day your wake up so full of regret.
What an injustice you held over me,
but there was me crying and thinking so naively.
We both have are reasons as for why we grew apart,
though you were tainted by her and you showed no class.
I gave you my best, but maybe you needed more,
though I hate that you strayed, I cant blame you anymore.

© Jasmin Elizabeth 2018

us.

I look at her. Isn’t she just, well…beautiful.
I think about her, maybe her life…maybe her life is better than mine?
I obsess about her, I wish I could wear her skin for just one day!
I cry about her, how much I know she was sad inside.
I love her, not romantically but beautifully.
I forgive her, every word she said that cut.
I praise her, for she is such a talent.
Her hair deep and brown, chestnut.
We laugh together, most nights alone,
her voice, like a home away from home.
her forgetfulness and clumsiness,
her bright coloured scarfs, always polkadots.
Always messy handbags that are full to the brim,
always a spare tissue or lipstick when in need.
Always a desk covered in sticky notes,
always laughing at her chunky handwriting.
For she walks with me when I need a friend ,
she would comfort me for if I was to cry,
I do often wonder what its like to be her, she has such a creative messy mind.
I sit looking in the mirror.
Talking to myself again,
that girl I know in-front of me, she looks so interesting,
but without the constant praise or reminding, her confidence seems to shatter.
People often don’t realise the colourful ones also matter.
Though we may not have cuts, and open wounds, that are visible for people to see.
We may not talk about our worries, for we can put on a show so effortlessly.
Me and my multiple personalities.
us.

© Jasmin Elizabeth 2018

Our Life in colour

As I sit here in my kitchen, admiring the view, the vibrancy of the rapeseed leaves me breathless.
Smells of wild garlic penetrate the room. The sunlight blearing through the window distracts me from my work.

Feeling the warmth of the air on my skin, the breeze runs through my hair.
Sounds of machines, cotton gin, lying amongst the grass skin bare.

Are you the first one to spot a star in this crystal clear sky;
or is the midnight sun weighing down on us?
The touch of barley against my legs, as I run through the fields at night, sparing with wooden swords as though we’re knights deep in battle beneath the moonlight.

Cotton and barley, sunset colours of reds and golds,
warm nights in June, white dresses and marigolds.
You have always had a way with words that bring colour to my life, but you made my body shiver, the way you kissed me tonight.
Under the moon, the fresh scents of summer arouse me, as our bodies are intertwined on the fresh cut grass below.
As I sit there each morning musing in a sweet reverie, knowing an adventure awaits with you, when you come home.

© Jasmin Elizabeth 2018

The King

Decadent and obtuse such as a king unwilling to change his ideologies.
The judgement he makes, clouded by his self-worth and stubborn mind; no more simplistic or laborious than something as insignificant as an orange, however cursed with a curious mind.
Is it preposterous to suggest that a leopard can not change its spots? Or is it in fact that he is just obstinate?
Envious and riddled with hunger for the things he has not earned, unpleasantries spill from his lips like a ruined wine, so thick, its dark colour resembles blood.
However, this man has not been wounded by another man, only by his own sickened delusions.
Then as his lips turn to grey, and he lets out his final cry, only then will he see that he is alone, waiting to die.

©Jasmin Elizabeth 2018

The Mute

Clenching her teeth, frozen to stone, with solitude she remains still;
A prisoner of such grace, with hurt in her heart, a hole she’s unable to fill.
With plenty of love and buckets full of tears, he caught her in a net made of gold; but no amount of heart or affection so bold, can give her back her words.
Forever she remains a mute.

© Jasmin Elizabeth 2018

Red Telephone Boxes.

Those old cobbled streets and red telephone boxes remind me of moment when time felt slow.

Our little legs running home ten minutes to late, flushed cheeks, and smells of bonfire smoke.

With smiles that spanned from ear to ear, on those barmy summer evenings, we hoped would never go; with the wind in our faces and the grass between our toes, those are the memories that still ignite me the most.

Our small square knees covered in fresh grass stains, as we rolled down the fields and played cats cradle; hurried inside for super time is looming, baguettes with cheese, soft butter and soup poured, with a wooden ladle.

Peaches and cream “but not too much” Grandma would insist, “For else you will get most uncontrollably fat!” and with the sun setting on those hot summer nights, we’d drift asleep. Not a care in the world, but only to live, to to laugh, “Goodnight my little wombat.”

©Jasmin Elizabeth 2018

This image was taken from Pinterest and the right credits/copyright go to the photographer who took the picture above.

Into Wondrous worlds

(A children’s poem.)

Into wondrous worlds we create in our heads, we spring into at night when we go to bed.

Mum kisses us on the head, “Sleep tight.” She says.

Running away with all of our might, through misty woods by firefly light, never stopping to realise we are only seven inches high.

Mum tucks us in, “be brave” she whispers  “My little Huckleberry Finn!”

Through dusty deserts, we get sand in our eyes, tears start streaming but we will not cry, for mighty adventurers are we, not weakened by sand, nor the waves of the Arabian sea.

Mum strokes our heads, and hums a tune so softly “feather bed feather bed, monkeys eating banana bread, rosey cheeks that are cherry red, put on your fresh pyjamas my children and get to bed.”

The stars are in reach, theres no gravity here, in a universe so wide sightseer, for lets travel the moons in just one night, and make it back in time for morning, when we open our eyes.

Mum stares into our faces with huge delight, with such love and affection, she lets out a sigh, “now my little night owls, don’t let the bed bugs bite!”

We’re skipping through fields and suddenly there’s snow, we race into the kitchen for Dad’s warm hot coco. Telling us tales of blizzards back in time, when they were children with a big wondrous mind.

Mum peeps through the door, listening to us snore, her heart pounds as she turns to leave, blowing us a kiss and tip toeing quietly.

For we are sound asleep, tucked up in our beds, with thoughts of wonder filling our small little heads, ever yearning to explore the unexplored, always dreaming better and bigger and more exciting than before. May we stay this way for years to come, as childhood dreams are so much fun!

Mum opens the door. “Morning” she sings, opening the draws. “Oh what a lovely day outside to play! Lots of adventures for you children waiting today!”

But little does she know the wildest adventures that on which we go, are when we’re asleep tucked up in bo.

©Jasmin Elizabeth 2018

Justice

Crumbled, all broken, a glass heart shattered.
Tired, bruised, belittled, alone
physical, emotionally burned and deceived;
though I know I must forgive, for I deserve to be free.

Haltered, shackled, as if my body is in chains,
naked, cold, like a baby so vulnerable.
All I ever wanted was your true affection,
beat my esteem, my mind, what is an ego?

Do you know I loved you? I loved myself too.
I was mentally fit, before you were to intrude.
Complexed by the fear that now drags behind me like a shadow,
confused as to whether our life together was ever happy?

Did you ever love me, or am I a fool?
Why do you see the world as if someone owes you?
Selfish, prude, and merely a speck,
the only time reality will hit, is in the eyes of death.

Your shallow mind, non sensitive soul, your assuming eyes and your baggage load,

I hate the fact, I once loved your face,
tears fall from my eyes, like cold winter torrential rain,
locked in a cupboard, forever pushed away.
Now you are the one who will learn to pay.

I hope you feel hurt
I hope you feel cold
I hope you feel tired and unable to walk,
I hope you feel sick, sick to the stomach
I hope that you break so hard you scream,
scream that your sorry and you know you were wrong.
For then I can forgive you. Then we can move on.

©Jasmin Elizabeth 2018