Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Train Carriage Confessions

I find it no coincidence that you seat yourself here,
beside me,
when there are empty rows available.
Equally apparent, is that I am caught by the same instinctive attraction—
my attentive gaze greeting your curious glance
towards my pen
then
into my eyes.
Neither of us, with our timid temperaments,
have the intrepidity to initiate a decisive action of discourse, and so
I sit here
half-wishing your peregrine eyes
would pass over my obstructive shoulder
and read these confessions,
knowing them to be as true
as the light I can perceive inside of you.

Silence and Sirens

There's little difference in the susurrus spoken sound
of 'silence' and 'sirens'
yet within their substance
is considerable distance
That is how I feel
about the sigh of you and I.
I've spent an ephemeral eternity
trying to establish
which of us, despite apparent semblance,
is guilty of the din.
I've started to surmise that it is me—
the bashful banshee.

Wednesday, 27 August 2014

Searching for the Sun

I wake with the aching beauty
of the world. The sunlight shines a
sparrow's silhouette through my window ajar,
but it is gone before
the morning's melody is heard.
The fact that every thing is profound
takes nothing from the unique, singular
profundity of every moment, fragment
and splinter of our being.
The path is full of gravel.
I shovel the stones because
I like to hear them clatter.
I don't remember which way
the sun comes up.
I hunt for it in the mornings
then I just sit among the rocks
and pick at the weeds, thirsting
their way up, hoping for rain.
The weeds get their wish,
and I wade back in wet and worn
sighs.
The storm clears and
I'm left
still searching for the sun.

...Of our Time

Do not mistake what is being said for what has been said,
for even though time transcends the fragments in a spasmodic puzzle,
there is weight in each word
(repeated or not)
and with each imbrication
our individual actions implicate,
we are each of us
essentially the sum of our parts.

Monday, 18 August 2014

Of your Light...

That I should not find you as a mirage of the mind, 
a figment of my fancy
is a phantom of the finely fathomable.
You are a phosphorescent light
that undeniably gives both credence and confidence 
in the direction all paths must lead
through the blackest of nights.
To say that your radiance is a fallacy
created by my dark isolation
would be dim indeed,
and would disregard the iridescence
that outshines both the Sun and Moon in equal measure,
and has no need for parting shift nor break
for your light has no desire to spurn
half of its shine in shadow.

Plummet

Children sitting on the cliff edge, examining
the ebbing tide,
tossed pebbles first, then flowers.
The flowers floated;
the children sank.

Wade

Wave-licked
with thigh-rolled jeans he had strode
out to where the sea catches its breath,
forgetting the electronical device in his pocket.

And in that wind-plucked foam, 
made a father-pose,
though no sandal'd tussock bug rolled the dunes
waving the prize of a perfect wooden pistol,
and the shore was repeatedly planed clean,
clear of all gust battered figures.

The Noise That You'll Hear...

The hollow crash of waves on sand
is behind me.
now the sun, through sand,
sears my feet callused.
from sand to stone,
from stone to grass,
and home.
My skin glows like a coal.
I can still hear the water
as sleep slowly follows.

Sequestration at Sea

My aimless heart dances atop a tide-free ocean
with no pull to bring him to shore.
I know that he does not mind being at sea
but my mind's not as sure anymore.

I can't decide if I'm more frightened at getting stranded
or that it's what I hold deep within my will.
You see, at heart I am still a buoy
who is destined to stay innocently still.

With luck, I will be led to safety by a lighthouse
and arrive at your body of land.
A life spent avoiding being on the rocks
might prevent me caressing the sand.

So I will concentrate on making my life a speck
barely seen by hostile telescopes.
I will sail as far away as I can
then drop the anchor and cut the ropes.

Spun

The spider hung grotesque
upon his palace made of string.
My palace shuts out all the light
his trembles in the wind.
The maxim goes that I am strong
and he is weak and thin.
Yet here he sits, an emperor. And I am yet to spin.

Masquerade

Insincerity is society's greatest hypocrisy
and I cannot stomach the illusion.
A plethora of prepared pleasantries
to choke on in calculated confusion.

So spare me the sycophantic simpering,
complimented with a soap opera smile.
Remove the mechanical masquerade that custom has made
and display your human hatred without guile.

Sunday, 17 August 2014

Estuary and the Ebbing Light

Forget my thoughts floating down the river,
let the bank pick up stray reeds and algae
like an unrestrained dog owner with boundless and bundling
love. Let there be darkness,
allow the mouth to open up and pour brackish water
into a grey pool of jagged generations.
Clasp the sky's air, wiggle your dirty toes,
splash your knees, sing to the birds, tell my thoughts
to stop swimming upstream, where they might
find the source to be furiously underwhelming.

Night Shames

Composing conversations
in my head
with the ideal conclusions
to relieve dread.
But what I can construct
within a thought
is never completely construed
the way it ought.
And so I must recompose
with blushing shame
a peripheral panicked past
penned to my name.

Wile E

I am the coyote that can fly
but only so long as I think
I am the touching the ground.
I will look down to see
nothing but air
and my predicament will realise
itself.

Monday, 16 June 2014

Routine

Tiptoes traverse the muddy trail,
heeding not the heavy heels
which hinder their tender tread.

Rhythmic rapid repetition
through foliage fair and frail,
each steely sinew anneals
to a thorough structured thread.

Rhythmic rapid repetition
must eventually derail
from the salubrious appeals
of the constant path ahead...

Helicoid

Sunday's splintered sunlight
punctures panicked moments
that the mind construes as truth.
A subconscious retelling
of Monday's mundane memory
that manifested in my youth.
The authentic narrative
from a nebulous night
in a morphinic stream
is surrendered seconds
of a worn-out waking life
wound up in last year's dream.

Tuesday, 20 May 2014

The Mystique has been Lost

The mystique has been lost—
paper print-outs replace
the palpable ticket of card complete with a shiny seal,
now scanned lazily and discarded,
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
seen through a plethora
of phone screens capturing the same pixelated images,
to share to more indifferent, unseeing eyes,
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
a predetermined set
readily available to be previewed on the Internet,
playing only the most $ucce$$ful hits,
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
and through the sea
of vexatious tropes from a diluted, stagnating scene
that the Internet age has brought
the mystique has been lost.

The mystique has been lost—
and yet the music has not.

#Ink

Carve something graceful
into my chest meaningful;
so to kiss and clench.

Crossed Paths

There is a saccharine romance,
a scenario spoiled by chance
when passing by a stranger
known only by a smile and glance.

And so the sweetness is subdued
to its lonely circumstance,
in a crossing of dreamy eyes
which can both beguile and entrance.

Both parties go separate ways
whilst their minds skip, hand in hand
both pondering what could have been
if confidence had more command...

Monday, 19 May 2014

The Changing of Guard

Waves peel away the pebbled sheets
on the maritime mattress,
folding gently towards the foot
of the ocean bed.

The dawn sun rises
at the dusk of the lunar reign.
The bed is freshly made
to be slept in again.

Dishwater

Ink ingrained into the palm of my hand,
a furtive reminder;
now here
subtle enough to be washed away.

Saturday, 10 May 2014

Wren

A wren springs
from his seeded seat
on to the branchlet,
which wobbles
 from his slight weight.
A wren flutters
his tiny panicked wings,
plummeting to the floor
in stuttering glide
before flying away.

It strikes me how even
the most fragile birds
make errors of judgement.

It strikes me how only humans
let pride prevent us from moving on.

We are the ones who forgot how to fly away.

Monday, 28 April 2014

Yonderly Shores

The susurrus brush of sinuous waves,
systatic with the siccaneous sand,
is soft in her sun-clad syzygy
guided by the virason's weathered hand.

The fusillade of over-turned fossils
foraminate the fool's merry frescade—
a farraginous flânerie falls short
of foaming footprints he's now forced to wade.

And so the shore laps up the shingled kiss,
an insatiable disregard for man;
insidiating with the sea to spoil
his own lecanoscopic day-dreamed plan.

And so the shore stops his saccharine kiss,
the velleites of man in ignorant bliss.

Sunshine Under Lock

The morning mist
makes way for afternoon bliss
that the month must miss.

But the early bloom
and her serotinious moon
cannot come too soon.

The Breadth that Breathes Between Strangers

There is a breadth that breathes
between strangers,
it is what predicates them.

Born in the bloom of hostility
in a dewy-eyed spring,
it bears no rational prejudice.

Yet we send our souls to slaughter
of stuffy summer petulance;
even a breadth can be confining.