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.

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.