Not Ready for the Songs

The span of the season's wings en-

gulf my shaky sense of safety:

they drag my being to their nest.

Though I'd welcome to be nestled

within their feathery embrace

I would much sooner welcome rest.

So the robin that chirps for me

gleeful on those frosty mornings,

please leave your song until later.

They say it's the most wonderful

time of the year and yet the sense

of weariness is much greater.

Repetition and Alteration

Repetition is a constructed lie
but one that allows us to thrive
for it's a variation improved by
the new moments had whilst alive.

Alteration in the familiar
is a route to a rout of rights
through perfecting something similar
and subsiding all of the slights.

Our Spin Sees it Just...

Pure morning light
    loitered on your
       exposed collar
        filtered through blinds
             who let strips in
           and the duvet
          kisses your breast;
       reflecting light -
     luciform love
and our spin sees it just
   that the ambered
       and slumbered sun
         should rouse those eyes
            from restful lids
         and dance to your
       rising shoulders
    exposing more
  winter lit skin;
soft snowy bliss.

Windswept

Seagull, mid-flight,

blown from its track,

caught in a gust of wind,

never finds its way back

but where does it

plan to descend

or if rather the case

did it have any ends?

I'd hope to think

it was fine chance

that took hold of its wing

and control of the dance,

for when you're caught

(feathered or fur)

it's rather the sign of

circumstance in the air.

Boundless Atmosphere

Such sinuous softness

in the silk of your skin

contains your heart's corona

and the light contained within.

Such selenic brightness

in the glow of your eyes

emits your lively love

and how our harmonise.

Such stellular hypnosis

in the pull of your lips

gravitates me towards you

and your meteoric fingertips.

Such heavenly halcyon

when you are in my arms

in a perihelion;

that point of closest calm.

Such heavenly halcyon

when our earthly bodies meet—

in space there's heard an explosion

as our weightless love accretes

Splintered Sun

Trunk splintered sun

lights leaves aglow.

Hands stretching high,

mist flying low.

The summer's death

is all for show.

Nothing to see,

nowhere to go.

Dark and Damp

Horrors lie uncertain

under Heaven's soft snow,

forsaken by sunlight

in a place forbidden go

but we ventured down

for the will of our kind;

us vessel of spirits

to see what we'd find -

it was dark and damp.

Feathers

Feathers in your mouth and blood on your tail:

I can't help but be a fool for the facts.

Immaculate paws point to faith I'd lacked

and oust me as someone fragile and frail.

Yet we're still clearly left with a dead bird

and its carcass conveys a carnal sin

so it takes all my strength from within

to dismiss the tweeting that I had heard.

For sometimes feathers are merely feathers

and blood can come from natural sources;

when careless suspicions run their courses

fearful minds can break free of their tethers.

I still nurse that bird in my gentle hands

knowing not who did it harm nor where it lands.

Day To Day/Overwhelmed

Wilted and worn                           with little want
from the whirlwind                      stirring in my bed
of a day to day                             overwhelmed by life
tilted and torn                              by a feeling of can't
from the neglect                          that I've been drowned by
of a day to day;                           overwhelmed by life;
an overwhelmed life -               a day to day
with much to do,                         with little respite,
there's a drowsiness                   of mal-hydration
in a jaundice hue                          and a lack of light,
yet I can't keep up                        with life to live
when it comes to you                   and sleep to fight.

Atlas Stone

Lately, I've had a boulder
that I've taken everywhere.

Rested on my aching shoulder,

it's such a burden to bear.

But it has 'come a part of me

and so I cling to it like hell.

I feel as though it could be

the magic caster of some spell.

But day by day, I've felt strength wane

and the boulder's weight's increased

until I cannot take the strain,

the ache festering like yeast.

And so I've dropped it from my arms

but it's landed on my toes,

which seems to do even more harm...

I doubt the pain ever goes.

I've tried to lift the weight once more

but it was too heavy to take

and as it stays dead on the floor

my failing hands begin to shake.

And now my shoulders feel light

and my skin's no longer cut,

but I still have these hills to fight

and I still have a broken foot.

The Worsification of Wine

The flocculent feelings of fondness

foraminate frost that had enveloped.

A flaught flicker in your eyes towards mine,

both intoxicated by wine;

I knew a love had developed.

The potency grew stronger with each pour

our pupils both dilated in awe.

More wine madefied your majestic lips

as my fingertips felt for you hips;

I recognised you without flaw.

The effects of the wine dissipated

yet those systatic sensations sinewed.

As intoxication was sedated

our hearts still both felt elated

by the love that was created.

Waking dream; Working dream.

Sleep steady,

sedated by the bright midnight

waking hours

find me heavy eyed

drifting into

nocturnal dreams

of existence,

reflections

down the darkest shard.

A luciform logic

malnourished by choice, working on caffeine

to hold a roof above my head

the rain already

falls too much

and the alarm calls

for another day.

Lost in the Lunar Lit Licks

Salt water seeps and spreads

through sepia sheets,

an owner caught unaware

by the changing tides

of the lunar sea

in a midnight stroll;

all light left those words

and meaning shattered

by shingles shunted

towards the shore.

The pale reflection leers

her flickering facade

as though luring the owner

into her sinewed grasp;

lecanscopy and the hypnotic

displacement of pebbles

working in synergy;

still he can't retrieve

those words he wrote

with an assured pen;

the night is ephemeral

but its damage holds eternal.

A Second Floor Scene

A scent of freshly laundered linen

as your stripes slide off swiftly

and the creases                                

                                             of your skin

are snatched at in delirious delight

under the gaze of Venus' light

and the blinds                                   

                                 stir in the wind

snatching at the open window

where we echo in the night.

September Softness

A plethora of pressed petals

could not duplicate your delicacy,

nor could their scent evoke sensations

a slight bit as strong, as those sustained

by the perfume on your curved clavicle,

skin as exposed as those feelings

I struggle to conceal as you catch me staring

as my inner-self screams those words

that my tongue is too sedulous to speak.

Summer Upstaged

Summer retired, stage right,

with little fanfare,

upstaged by Autumn's carefree cameo,

undeserving of the star billing received

with her limited stage time,

swept away by the shifting folly of fame.

Night Tides

Opalescent aura; the phantom that falls

between my blinds and slips beneath

my duvet onto the folds of my sheets -

my glance and hers meet

at the still and silent sea,

a refracted halcyon, milky hue.

I turn over to you, tight eyed, smiling

at the sentiments that stirred me

from my sleep and how

that silver soul sensed

the soft tides in the waves of my heart.

Under the Mill

That hour elapsed with urgency,

my hands trembled but my will did not

as I watched you, watching me,

wonder in those great vessels within their emerald oceans

and I averted my gaze down to my plate,

long purged of its contents.

My eyes found the waitress's, an unspoken request,

as a folded receipt was brought over with packaged mints,

and I promptly overlapped it with plastic

and held open the door, buttoning my jacket

as we made our exit, into the sky's embrace,

fingertips glancing at first, then strengthening in grip.

We circumnavigated that reedy body of water,

reflecting your soft countenance, and mine paled with plans

 - we paused - 

lips glancing at first, then strengthening in grip

before we carried on upward to the rusting sky,

my thoughts anxious with times ans suppositional circumstances.

As our mirthful minds crossed that inclined threshold

we could both discern a city's silhouette in salmon skies

and found a place to rest aching legs and full stomachs.

I opened my mouth - unable to speak; and instead looked out

to the sea where white waves wandered, and my eyes wandered

to those deep emerald oceans once more.

My hands trembled but my will did not,

as I watched you, watching me,

and you replied,

"Yes!".

The Widow

Susurrus summons of the solemned sea

welcomingly waves, beckoning me.

I know not her wish

or where I will wash,

but only in her clutch will I feel free.

She's said to be the mother who gave life

but I see the weeping of a widowed wife.

She groans in her grief

to her submerged reef,

her only relief a jagged rock's knife.

I notice that she would not mourn for me

in her desperation for company.

Yet I let her grip;

I let the tide rip,

and she swallows me whole so hungrily.

Lexical Addiction

I've got a craving

to succumb to that lexical addiction;

to allow those words to control me

with what little fix their diluted form still holds.

My subconscious control comprehends

that it's a habitual utterance

and yet with each delightful dose it demands

a little more value in its validity.

And so I let you overcome me

despite my weak-willed protests;

it strikes me that this isn't my usual poison

and yet the purest form might be positive.

I've got a craving

to succumb to that lexical addiction again

and with the utmost understanding

it is uttered.

Effervescent Memories

Effervescent memories, floating to the top,

ending in a pop, ephemeral in their rise

'til their explosive demise, gone into the air,

they're no longer there, effervescent memories.

Night Gifts

Those gifts we sometimes receive in the night

are met by an audience expecting

to see on our faces, signs of delight,

but find the scattered wrapping perplexing.

There's no doubt thought has gone into the gift

and it is something we will come to need

but when there are presents through which we sift

never is it the instructions we read.

So the gifts are collecting dust, somewhere out of sight

and each one is in need of dissecting

but there's a danger that would cause a rift

from a prior warning we didn't heed.

Since, I've paid great care to each gift I've got

and rue every gift I have since forgot.

5.7

These jagged white teeth that leer from the shade

and are rotting under the grasp of moss

menacingly mirthful in mess they've made

care not for his troubles nor for your loss.

Instead they goad him into glaucous grips

willing him to be consumed by the scud

until rolled over by the wave's wet whips,

tossed like a pebble into banks of mud.

Those 5.7 seconds recalled years;

a lifetime condensed into a fraction

and as the philosopher of Algiers

he imagined Sisyphus' satisfaction.

But in that time he could not change his way

to the cliff's delight and his friend's dismay.

— In Silence —

Alone, under the gargantuan balls of gas

that punctuate the pitch black sky in pulchritude

with their puissant burning — in silence — 

as I walk along the centre of the empty roads

arms outstretched, tiptoes touching

the painted white markings that demark contraflow,

and the tinted bulbs of traffic lights

flash and flicker from green to amber to red — in silence —

signalling to the empty roads that nothing in particular

must stop. I take no heed, rushing through

in half-drunken delight, head polluted by rum

and thoughts of a blissful moment spent with you,

and my brain screams in ecstasy — in silence —

for your presence, as though I could rouse you from your silent sleep,

just as your labial lullaby lacerated my eyes; laconic

— in silence —

#Casual

There's no worse sentence

than one what starts with the words

"I'm not racist, but..."

Iceage

Oh how you've been clinging to those icy grips

like languishing leaves lost among litter.

The weather, it tries its best to warn you

you'd be left directionless and bitter.

That's not to say it's cold all of the time

but rather a sudden forecasted front

and what meteorologists once said;

they'd now rather not be taking that punt.

The forecast's grim; but at least not for him

who's walking around in shorts and a vest.

His happiness shows, for he really knows

he's on the cold Earth only as a guest.

And when the ice melts, he'll swim in the flood

and when he's drowning he'll say "it is good".

Pre-Determined Free-Will

There is a finality and determinism

                              to life that we struggle to describe

                                                             as under the control of our will;

                                                              our choice.

This is true to a certain extent.

                            There is a huge element of cause and effect

                                                             that gives us our many variations

                                                             of lives.

Our choices determine who we are, and

                             what becomes of us as people, yet

                                                            these choices are constricted in the

                                                            confines of fate.

One needs context in order to feel, so the first

                             life would feel nothing, for it had nothing

                                                            to compare to; meaning is ordained from

                                                            prior life.

We are predetermined by our genetic makeup

                                 and by a history of what we 

                                                           at least perceive as free choices; what we're

                                                           programmed to do.

The human life has been set by fate to have a

                                 spring, summer, autumn, winter. This is unavoidable

                                                          unless we ripped out pages from

                                                          life's calendar.

But we can never choose
                                 that the next season should not fall;
                                                         delay it and prepare for it
                                                         though we might.

Our free will determines what happens 

                               with these seasons, just as our choices

                                                         help to bring some seasons to be longer

                                                         than others.

The more free-will we get, the more

                              this global warming effect will occur,

                                                        not only in meteorological seasons but in this

                                                        issue of will.

In order to best attain a credible

                              existence, we must become autonomous

                                                         beings and allow fate to direct us through seasons

                                                         as prescribed for us.

We should not fall foul on the path

                              of choice, for choice blinds us

                                                          into the narcissistic notion that

                                                          we are free.

Whether we are free or not

                              is ultimately an otiose debate

                                                         for we only found out both sides by both

                                                        choice and fate.

Cans

Home is where the heart is

or so I have been told

but it isn't the ones out on the streets

whose hearts are empty and cold.

Hungry and not heartless

not harmful, but hurting;

so their heinous criminalisation

is more than disconcerting.

And yet they're swept away

like empty cider cans,

dropped by ones not labelled for addictions;

dropped by privileged hands.

No-one's there to pick them up,

 they all just walk straight past

for they degrade this depressing city

and are looked upon as trash.

But don't throw them away,

recycling needs some sorting;

for every sorry state we find a use

with the right supporting.

See a can? Pick it up!

Put it where it belongs -

we should be looking for the good we can do,

not ignoring all that's wrong.

The Rat

The rat willed for refuge

from the chambers in the sewers,

crowded everywhere that it went.

Away from the refuse

and negativity that skewers

all of the time it has spent.

So it indecisively sought

a solitary space of its own,

but not one single section could it find.

Instead it was caught

by the reality that was thrown

that it was trapped in the tunnels of its mind.

Sea Legs

I gazed as your saliferous hair

slapped upon the sunset rocks

of a sangria sea.

From out of the mist 

my searchlight came

seeking your signal

to close in on the cooling evening.

Yet the waters are too rough,

I am dehydrated

and I have lost my sea legs.

Upkeep

There's a higher thing

in hyacinths

sprinkled on the lawn.

They remind me of

my love for you;

how it threatened to be overgrown.

How the upkeep would

distress the neighbourhood

if not picked and pruned.

Yet my blistered hands

can no longer stand

to aggravate the wound.

A Terrible Death

I fear not

how it would feel to die

but to lack feeling,

yet I'm self aware

that I'm terribly self aware

and so terrible.

Escaping my Sepulchre

Removing the boulder of your body,

I escaped my sepulchre sequestered,

solivagant against the subterfuge

and the sins and ill will that had festered.

Renascent against the apostasy

in animus that made me ascetic,

I cursed not the boulder that had held me

but rather found forgiveness analgetic.

And such reflections found me less reticent;

regret receded with ruminations

'til I found the ataraxic axiom;

I was thankful for your testing creations

This realisation rendered me removed

from a sorry world that had never improved.

Shower

A jet of afflatus

in my epicurean contemplation of life

as I compose poetry in the shower,

trying to get the perfect balance

of hot and cold,

my fingers webbing from staying in

one spot for too long.

My memory of the words

is swept away in lachryform beads

by the coarse towel's kiss;

grating against horripilated and

humbled flesh,

lost forever with those ephemeral easing

moments of enlightenment.

Schiamachy

I studied my shadow's sapient subterfuge

as she sequestered in a selenic delight,

somewhere I've never gone, in the dead of the night—

though I wished that I might.

Her swasivious sweven was fleeting and false

as she distracted me from my supine routines,

in a fickle frisson of Freud's wish-fulfilling dreams—

she is not what she seems.

I wonder where tomorrow takes my shadow, and

why can't I too show the silence that she displays,

and if I stray from the sun can I go away—

can I leave with the day?

Her Horticulture

The lifeless tendrils of her faded amaranth abate

in vicissitude of the verdure found within her Spring.

All plucked are her petals, as their douceur dissipates

and left is an unbloomed knosp of a madness enate.

Still those truculent turbid tendrils tangle around my chest

and try to feed on my tacit and altruistic manner.

Internecine and intransigent, I sometimes detest

those sciophilous, shady seeds that ever began her.

I shudder to think of poisons injected by her thorns

or the injury that one would endure from ingestion.

The vesuviation of variegation is forlorn,

revealing the verisimilitude behind beauty's deception.

There's a torpid tabefaction in this tryst of turgid shoots

and I'm wary of tatonnement in the tawdry tangles of Spring.

I will avoid the plants bearing the serpent's ripest fruits

and, like weeds, rip them up from their once roseate roots.

Dinosaurs in School!

A pterodactyl's gliding in the hall,

we're all terrified and trying to sing.

We all really hope that it will not fall

but I spotted some Blu-Tac stuck to its wing.

A T-Rex is terrorising the loo 

and its arms are too short to wash its hands.

I don't know what this carnivore will do;

can it sit on the toilet or does it stand?

A triceratops is catching some hoops

that it found outside with its three horned face.

The teachers are trying to read with groups

but children are running all over the place.

A stegosaurus' plates rattle the office,

letters and envelopes fly everywhere.

It whips its tail and spills all of the coffees

onto the computer, the desk and the chair.

A brachiosaurus is sat crying in class,

rifling through all of the children's trays.

It's trying to find some nice tasty grass

on which this poor hungry herbivore can graze.

And finally we find a diplodocus

sat on the carpet talking to his friends...

suddenly the teachers and children are raucous

Friday's loudest roar as the school day ends!

The Fortitude of Fallen Foliage

Often is winter's arrival mourned

as an icy season of bitter death

but I find it rather a time adorned

with the opportunity for fresh breath.

The solstice is dark and hard to endure

and it represents the pessimist's peak,

but after that those dark days are fewer

and the skies steadily appear less bleak.

So do not mourn the fallen rusted leaf

separated from the embrace of the tree

but rather take solace in the belief

that it will benefit from flying free.

The fallen leaves, once so solemn, stir

from the comforting pick-up in the air.