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.

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.

Tuesday, 2 September 2014

Share a Life with...

I've been looking for someone to complete me,
but the search is like
hunting for a Coca-Cola bottle
with my name on,
and finding any name but mine,
or with a different spelling variation.

My unloveable heart matches
the obscurity of letters,
but then again I suppose
love is just a intelligently marketed drink
that I have no real desire for
when its flavours fizz out
long before sell-by date.

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.