Saturday, 23 January 2016

As Yet Unnamed

A summer day, whose heat belied
its overshadowed sky, enveloped in a
variegated green rolling from one
landscape to the next,
and in a madified mound framed
the moment where I divined 
that you and I - we -
are a pair.

So dead and dry those lifeless blades
of grass, when compared to that of your
exposed shoulder,
that the torn grass could scarce
forbid our youthful hearts to know
that our neanic bond
natures dearth.
Which severed stump?
Which wooly verge could ever demean the joys of Venus' domain.

That day I could taste the droplets
of your name on my lips, as I
exhaled; its wide-mouthed prefix
swam towards my joining lips
pushing together in unison
before lengthy sigh
had my tongue crashing
against the roof of my mouth,
stretching out the last sound,
impossibly as it was not to smile in ecstasy.

"Begin again!", I heard
your heart skip a beat. When whispered
your three syllables recall
bleak days when no-one had sounded them at all.
The hearts of men, of women,
of beasts and birds
cannot survive bereft of loving words.

Floating on Rolling Hills

Cradle me in your codeine
as multiples of
my out-
s  t  r  e  t  c  h  e  d
arm reaches to
yours, lain cold on the carpet; pressed against glass
doors, spilling over green
meandering rivers,
and lonely roads alike.

The Passing of Storm Frank

Grandad, I remember those special times
like milk-rounds protecting you from parking fines,
screaming at the warden to leave you alone
in my youth, not knowing you could park on double lines.

Grandad, I remember how you asked about the scores
as you helped me close the milking barn doors,
both bemoaning the demise of glory days past
ever hard-working as you complete your chores.

Grandad, I remember a childhood playground from your farm
knowing that I could come to no harm,
a break from play with biscuits and pop
whilst listening in wonder to your unique charm.

Grandad, I remember how you displayed your pride
for how your family have all followed your lead and tried
and the way you have been such a influence on the girls
we all feel your wonderful warmth inside.

Grandad, I've learned how each moment that passes
is an excuse for laughter and I'll pass that to my classes,
there's rarely a serious moment that can't be made light
so I will see you when I get my glasses.

Sad Waves

I heed sad waves.
Rhythmic cascade.
Lunic black dirge.
Ceaseless worn surge.
The sea's dull blade.
Broken on graves.

Young Cardinal

In the muggy heat of early Fall, I lounged,
alone and weak, on a brown wooden bench;
Day surrendered to dusk, and mutely I gazed across
the grass, the trees, and wrinkled violet sky.

A pale young cardinal flew to my feeder,
its soft brown tufts lending a tender life to both
my thoughts and the humid air they slept inside.
Not sure I deserved her here, I kept so still
and distant, not wanting the bird to fly away -
not calling - taking cautious steps through grass.

But was I careful for her sake or for mine?
Perhaps they were as selfish and cowardly
as my dozing - fearful to move, or change too fast?
In meek flutters, the cardinal left, I creeping, yet still,
to the swishing feeder in the air now empty
of the sun's last rays. I knew too late that she
did not want silence, but life and holding warm -
crisp chirps and arm waving and kisses steady and long.

Returning in the black, I take up my bench,
my glass, my quiet and thinking, alone once more.
In the heat, my frail arms shiver constantly.

Waves of Wires

Waves of wires,
wrapped and tangled,
all worn and thin at the ends.
Waves of wires,
my brain has just wrangled
an hour of sleep til it mends
but world of worry,
restless and rotten
is an hour I can no longer spare.
World of worry,
too heavy to be forgotten
my wires are all burned and they're bare.


In the tremors of your dawning 
spot pride and your clothes
thrown from the white sheets
each dirtied 
by the floor 
and by the terrible realization 
of what we’ve done to each other.

[Nice Day]

A bed of grass amid
springtimes tender flowers
kissed by pleasing showers.
Jewelled in dew they hid.

The soil had held their shape.

Blue canvas stitched a roof
The grass still blonde in youth
softly framed her nape.

Another Day Done

I excite myself
with the promise
that with renewed vigor
I shall attack the day
when I rise to engorge
myself upon
what I cannot
this eve.
The deep and
profound need
to ingest
to imbibe
the new excitement
the newest marvel
the words that spill
from pen to pad
that reach the
toneless ears
of those
that lack the
remorseless hunger
of the novel.
The passion of interest itself
must wait for
me to rise
Such limitless drive
strains my drooping eyes... To bed. To bed.


All is painless as I drift
into your
delirium of dazed delight,
lips clamped and shoulders frighteningly
barely escapes a b^rea>th,
now wide eyes
[the teacher sensing the irony that he couldn't control his pupils]

I recognise the rhythms 
only your hollows make so well.

A Cached Stroll

The fusty fumble of the descending sky
took bites out of us-
like the horseflies that savaged my scalp
as you styled from over the style.
It uncovered what glossy green ivy covered so well
as bites started to swell.
Bats and birds flitted directionlessly above
as dipped headlight ants crawl from hilled hovel
to another beneath our behemoth feet.

Never such

Oh, you were like a summer's day.
its swollen buds, their juice
and bursts of fruity sweetness held
inside the rough winds loose—
and prodigal the heaven's eye
that scented man to spoil—
and clouds, and songbirds, and the sky
belonged to you, all.
Eternal should the day have been.
So who had it been, who
aboard this little earth had come
to net your flowered rue,
and freeze your winds to store them in
a cabinet to view?
Was I the perpetrator, used
too long to arctic hue?
(Who else? The world held but us two!)
Dazed by your nectar wild—
cupped by your richness, and then
in turn, your currents mild—
perhaps I'd seemed a ready thief,
bringing my gales and ice
as all the gifts you might receive.
For you, a mocking price.
For me, a harvest gathered twice.
Yet buds begrudge the place
which hard rime takes upon their beds:
they shatter it its base.
So let me make my return, flee
from treetop-roosting birds
to where no music comes with words
to where there is but me.
And as the summer comes to thaw
in sticky fruits, in jars,
I'll walk the Arctic's midnight thrall,
watching the icy stars.


The pink sky rubs off onto me,
and I am coated in the wisps like Nuclear ash.
Wafts of stale body smell rise from my bed and I.
The window sucks the trickle of my lamp
into the night -
a plenum,
slowly evacuating.


How would the tree atop the church
both stretch and live as one-
The wings of wood to call us death
take bulb upon the sun?

Petals, every one
to beat the fronds into an ice,
Where dance we may, a petal each
our moments into day?

To arm ourselves upon the grass,
to sprout into a wood--
In nova fert animus
the shapes end day as should.


While tomorrow's tomorrow's yesterday
and what was won't be forever
our precious fragments of today
will hold relevance forever
so that yesterday's yesterday's
forgotten not tomorrow, but never.

Visit to a Friend

The trees still lacks leaves.
They resemble elderly men in the daylight.
Soon the hairs will regrow.

The airplane in the sky that is so distant
is visible now.

The doorbell remember me.
Freight cars are loaded and offloaded.

The baggage that is one's soul is expanding.
It thrills with its duties.

The perfectionist worries
watching his shadow grow.

What It Means

What I thought impossible got me ensnared.
It might seem silly at first glance,
But many things appear dim when compared
To the shackles of circumstance.

Wide Open

I wondered what heaven looked like
but I don’t wonder anymore.
Heaven is a name, enveloped in blankets;
eyes closed and arms wide open.


Symmetry is everywhere
across my face, around your hair
but now with wilt is not so found
your shape to put my arms around.

And so I wait another day
for half an image to relay
but still I know, as sure as rain
balance will bring your form again.


A word is worth a thousand pictures
if carved in a knot of magnolia bark
by covalent lovers 'midst the mist
of fog-less farts from man's machines;
and foxes wield mechanisms of defense
in unveiled wooly sports-coats worn
by and by the prophet in shattered carafes 
polished into a frozen lake of mercury;
and Ribble slides to and fro, catching gnats,
sprouting seedless sunflower tender-loins
torn away from sow-less lantern skies
obscuring the pupil black curtain far behind;
and when a blind man trips on fingered feet
dampened in salty dew and mucous fun,
he sees that silence makes those who weep
hear the sobs from echoes' rain-dropped keys
up onto the eminent brows 'n' ridge furrowed furred:
a promontory for truck-driving fleets of crippled use
to warehouses bustling with oily nails and meat;
and vowels tesselate to Persian patterns
seamlessly collected by some suspecting eyes
surprised mid surpluses of decanted meaning
that floats on by like fiery birthday blimps
manned by a trillion cells named Giuseppe;
but what factory made the first factory?
and whose name formed itself first?
by the letter-less alphabet comprised of grunts?
These questions sit ashamed in the corner
wearing still a pointed cap quoting "dunce;"
and so the shell with the infected pistachio nut
cracks open inexplicably and decides
to grow into a salamander's spot–a maze–
constructed by invisible web-coasts called mind.

The Greatest View

For each grained groove in old wisened wood;
for all of the beaches fine specks of sand;
there's that fragment of frail detail that could
outshine the finest things in this fair land

For each ripple shining against the shore;
for each shade of blue found within the sea;
there's not a single sight that could mean more
than what your resplendent smile means to me.

For each ray of sun to pierce sanguine skies;
for each jagged mountain that frames the view;
what's most spectacular to cross my eyes
is the eternal light that shines in you.

What makes this image all the more divine
is the fact I can call your beauty mine.

Saturday, 16 January 2016

Pebbles and Paint

A shell
waves swell
worn down
men drown
by time
bells chime


On a dark night
a swan lands 
on a moon reflected lake
it glides in the water
and with a stroke of its wings it’s gone.
The only memories
are the waves it 

Lost by the Interval

Lights flicker as numbers count down
but never make their way to zero. Soon
the blank images are replaced by people
in motion. You can see the sweat of their brow or
the innocence of youth
stolen by codes and wires.

The images continue to flicker
at 16 frames per second.
They come to a standstill at the interval
and then move again. It is a motion
that can be paused
but never stopped.