Friday, 31 October 2014

Risen

The gravel street was warmed by the rusting sunset
hours ago. Now, lit up by bulbs and sparks,
we sit with it and watch the opposite's onset;
silent, bound to the tune of a meadowlark.
The sap-filled tree stands, the hidden sun
heats the splintered wood of the bench's tired frame.
A light spits forth, and so the ritual is done.
On the whispered lake now shines a thin flame
that shimmers upon the rolling waves. We watch it grow,
averting our eyes from that crack of light
that burns our eyes if stared at. Wind now blows
away the clouds to announce the end of night.
And we too must part like the solemn clouds
destined to be caught by light and crowds.

Shine

Dusty light filters through;
eyes wide,
lips spread,
rolling over shut out
of my head.

The echo resonates
soothingly
with the tremolo
fading; longingly
mellow.

Windbreak

I let the drizzle fall and form its stains.
I'll dye the rest so it can look the same.
Thinking what it would be like outside
while melted wood is running down my thighs.

And still my joints creek like weak trees
that are easily swayed by the whispering wind.
Knowing I have no time for her heavy hands
and yet I can't help but miss the moaning reprimands.

Affidavit

That which could inspire such sweet prose,
secreting the scent of such a sweet, sweet rose.
While any other dream would be,
twice as sweet with honey.
Might honey not come from bees, 
And I would sign my affidavit,
so sweetly, suavely, sagely,
in my finest calligraphy. 
So that the bureau
would have no choice but agree.
But I will give them their honey. 
with the bees, 
and they will know;
so must they know.

Sunday, 26 October 2014

A Blue Fire

The moonless midnight
is ignited by a spark;
engulfing the dark
and capturing my heart.

But the same heart knows
only sorrows can transpire
from this wild fire
that I've allowed to start.

And yet, although I wince,
I can't convince myself to dowse the flame
nor let it tame,
but only to bask in its heat.

Her name was taken by the wind,
a rescind of that spark
now taken by dark;
the promise of Heaven in wistful retreat.

Thursday, 2 October 2014

The Orchard

In the old orchard
we wandered hand in hand
beneath the vibrant branches,
heavy with dew, and age,
and we, young in years and spirit
saw the future ripening, in fragrant blossom and mellow fruit;
in warm rays and grass as green as our thought.

Now, in the rusting Autumn,
the fallen leaves cannot cover
the obfuscation of the clouds and the wayward moon
like the face of old Death
so small we can hide it behind a thumbnail
if we can only raise our hand.

Dead Bird

The buzzard bled,
led on its back
with his head twisted to the ground.
His mouth would gape
and then close
as if something inside his beak
was attempting
escape.

His feet clutched together tightly
with his eyes
wide open;
almost breathing, it seemed;
his wings pulled
cruciform,
and like Christ he was surely
lost and
gone.

Shadowplay

Her wings whip the day sore
sinewed by the dusk;
shadowplay on the moon.

To fade into fog then to gloom
twilight flies, fallen glances;
whispers blurred by cloud.

Following a regal path proud
to feed on fuzzing bug haze;
whipping the day away once more.

Tuesday, 23 September 2014

A Post


Mist

I descended into a mist
and in the midst of it was you.
I descended into a mist
in your eyes, a smokey blue.
I descended into a mist
but I could not see it through.
I descended into a mist
and in the midst of it was you.

Sunday, 14 September 2014

Autumn Leaves

Your auburn leaves rusted their coarse crust
onto the cobbles of my drive,
and I've been craving your metallic taste to touch my tongue,
just as the sun touches those leaves still standing,
and pierces scattered rays through,
like searchlights for those leaves once lost,
until the golden glow, with each glance upwards,
dissipates into darkness
and the premature dusk calls of the search for the night.

Spring Leaves

Leafs bleeding dew as the rays pour from the horizon
nature with no disguise on.
Earth in equilibrium,
towering trees,
in the furthest reach of the eye
A flightless kite awaits the night.
Silence is golden,
ans so is the sky.

Alone in Kyoto

I saw the city pavement
— a whirl of activity
I saw the glamour and movement
— a swirl of anonymity 
Sharp faces, sharp clothes.
Bright streets, dark woe.

Autumn's Nostalgia


The unmistakable nostalgia of September is upon us,
the hot breeze s
                            w                 through the air,
                               e           s                              caressing magnolia petals
                                  e    p                                                                               as it dances through 
the neighbouring woods.

The only noises that penetrate the whirling air are birds singing,
leaves brushing each other, and the rustling of my book pages
whilst the smell of distant floral laundry detergent percolates
through the thick and heavy summer air,
content with imitating their natural counterparts.

First Drops

The air is filled with water 
and the stalks are rustling dry
with the thunder speaking softly
in a corner of the sky

and the whirl and chase of leaves and chestnuts
pursuing down the lane
and the chill to raise your grumbles
with the first dark drops of rain...

Wasted

I have committed the worst of sins
one can commit. I have not been
Happy. Let the glaciers of oblivion
take and engulf me, mercilessly.
I applied my mind to the symmetric
arguments of art, its web of trivia,
when my parents bore me for
a much grander purpose in this
Life. It never leaves me. Always at my side,
that shadow of a melancholy man.

Rooted

The crowds that linger in desolate spaces are bound by nothing,
and yet are as rooted as the trees that whisper in autumn.
The merciless soil grants no escape to those without a sense of self,
They construct cells to hold the sacred and unwilling,
Square and rectangular blocks housing all their frivolities.
Burdened by burdens masquerading as necessary joys.

Still

People are a distraction
both from ennui
and motivation
which is why
I feel so distracted
from the motivation
of a useful attraction.

Inhaling Summer

A half-bloomed hydrangea 
swaying in the balmy air 
I close my eyes
and let the scent linger.

Dregs

You left this morning
a strand of hair, the door
half a cup of black coffee, on the floor
a note
singing nothing you hadn't sung before
already, as the pitch black of night simmered down
I was drinking up your dregs for more.

Clouds and Cliffs

A landscape of clouds and cliffs
lurid in luscious green,
and sandstone rolls and lifts
into the twisted perception of dream.

...

A                             r                               t
both compliments and compromises 
the condition of the human soul
mine
lies waiting for a muse to perfect it
and so too does my soul.

Lost Network

I like to wake
before the tinny jingle
of my phone's alarm,
when
I can get good and lost
in the vast countryside
where
it's like I'm the only human on earth,
but only as long as
the network signal is strong enough
that I can be assured my isolation
is a temporary fantasy.

Accounts

I've tried deleting your number out of my phone to convince myself that
I won't contact you again. And I don't, yet I still can't help but
scroll through your social media accounts,
[on which I have unfriended you and
erased every trace of our virtual contact
or sentimental photos, as though it would rid me
of what had occurred]
Yet I smile at some things you say
and at others get a little bewildered what I ever saw in you.
Still, the smallest mention of another loser's name
or any implied intimacies
and I still get a warm bubbling sensation in my stomach
and a tightness in my chest.

I probably don't care. 
I'm pretty sure
I don't care.
It's nothing.

Wednesday, 3 September 2014

Sunset and Secrets

A splintered sunset in salmon skies
stuck in my paws which are rubbing my eyes.
Obfuscating bark parts to reveal
the dark of the woods til the next dawn will rise.

For now, owls perch on branches of teal,
sharing the secrets that night will conceal.
The morning fire kindles the smouldering shade
whilst phantom embers attempt to appeal.

And so in the day, more secrets are made
by that one star who refuses to fade,
yet the day also swears that he will not tell
as the trees protect light with their palisade.

And so time went in a coherent spell,
until the secrets spilt and the first tree fell.