Time on my Hands

Lunar Sea/Lunacy

Smoky jonquil hue
concaved and serrated,
concealed by the clouds
softened and sedated.

Intermittent blinks

flashes of ruby red,

guiding in the dark

as sea and sky are wed.

Dulled by a warm blade

veiled in a vapoured gloom,

piercing the nothing

the sunk ship met her doom.

(and so too did the moon).

#Sunsets

Sunset in a mirror
rusting into memory
of a day gone by.

Aflame

Creases line their lears

across lamp-lit halls.

Amongst my flickering fears

its stony face falls.

It's crevices crossed

and my caution cast.

They bare their moulded teeth, mossed,

at my own, aghast.

Slipping to their soles

in pools filled with oil,

I find my heart full of holes,

pockets filed with soil.

Getting to my knees

it dowses my graze.

Gasoline caught in the breeze

burning out my daze.

He Lays in the Ocean

He lays in the ocean,

cruciform, eyes lacerated by salt

awaiting divine tides to guide Him

one way or another.

Beneath the waters, clear and glittering,

He discerns the Sun's shimmering corona

glinting back in the sands.

He rules to retrieve it, and diving under,

parts the water with His hands,

hinged with heavy chest.

Grasping that miraged halo

provided His rough hands

with nothing but coarse sand

and no safety of shore nor surface.

Freira

Fervent fevered frowns

on a mossy fingered bridge.

Folded foliage sways

in faint but fickle leaning,

frightening the freira

whose lightly seasoned feathers

brush against the ridge.

A most maternal dismay;

the ballet of flidge.

Faded Footprints

Matter being made to matter

by a basic belief of self;

for a footstep can still exist

without awareness of its patter.

So what gives us a distinction

from a footstep or some shoes;

is it yearning for a future

or intrinsic fear of extinction?

No memory of a first breath

does not mean that I have not been

and just as the inaminate

I shall have no memory of my death.

So I'm no more alive than this pen

that brings alive these empty words,

and like a footprint I will fade

never to be considered again.

A Barn

Sounds strewn in silence
                                           from a gaping wound
                                                                            that never meant harm;
b   e   c   k   o   n   e   d          b   y          b   l   a   c   k          y   a   r   n   .

A Hall

A hellish hollow
                        held together by
                                                  heavy handed walls;
d  e  a  t  h  '  s       c  o  r  r  i  d  o  r  s       c  a  l  l .

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.

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.

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.

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.

Dharma Initiative

Sulphurous mist

gives it's purgatory judgement

whilst others take the iridescent youthful souls for their virtues.

Existential paranoia and needs to follow a system

and the rhetoric of what would happen if we didn't execute the orders precisely.

We all await a release from the isolation that occurs in our own minds, and ultimately, the only rescue is the salvation of our intertwined past sins.

Wisp in Wonder

The wisp of smoke

dances towards the sky,

reaching from your dying cigarette

that litters your light fingertips

buring into the overcast troposphere,

resigned to the thickening fate

that the once dainty effluvium has.

I wonder if it is envious

of the smoke that is reserved

to be graced by the touch

of your full, fleshy lips

exhaled softly into the overcast troposphere,

dancing elegantly into the dense sky

savouring its farewell kiss.

I realise that whether by lips or fingertips

the smoke's time in your presence

is ephemeral and all smoke

must eventually join the clouds;

if I was that blissfully endowed smoke

my last action would be to hover

a halo around the crown of your hallowed head.

Brian Wilson and the Stranger

God Only Knows battles idle chatter,

steamy windows and steamy china cups

as damp raincoats clutter flaking windowsills,

and though he knows that he should focus

on the plot that is being dictated to him

by the seemingly omniscient narrator

he can't help but get drawn into the words

that resonate with his morose soul,

looking blankly at the hot tar

that swirls around in his clammy hands,

avoiding, above all else, those searchlight eyes.

He thinks about the end;

how the year has provided proof that the future

seems almost completely bleak

-though life would still go on believe me-

there is too much malice, egocentrism and hyperbole,

not enough verisimilitude, hope and identity.

Without that glimmer of purpose

that had illuminated his chambers for so long; well...

-what good would livin' do me?-

he'd almost prefer the prospect of uncertainty

than the certain desolation that awaits us all.

He stands up, cutting the chapter short.

Cold to the world, he makes for the door,

resolute in his plunge.

And a stranger holds the door open,

motioning to allow him through.

His icy heart thaws out

and the contempt that had encased his heart melts away

[proof for global warming, Mr. Trump, he thinks bitterly]

as his darkness is replaced by

an intense admiration for the potential of mankind.

-God only knows what I'd be without you-

Pieces of Autumn

A leaf glides on the water,

and ripples disperse around it;

Crossing over one another as the tree's

lachrymose with the lake, dirty halos

crowning these dead pieces of Autumn.

Passing under the bellies of mallards and Canadian geese,

unmoved and uncaring of the water's caress,

they stretched out like wings to whisper against

the nests of reeds and wrappers stood on the banks.

I wonder where my ripples would reach

tonight, if I was to die and leave.

The world would turn no slower

and the sun would shine no darker.

I'll pass under the bellies of ducks

an unheard voice, a disregarded ripple

Enfolded

Enfolding my breath

into subtle shapes, I cherish

watching them float away silently

as if coerced by a gentle magnetism

into unknown and unseen—the inexplicable—

And this existence we suffer is unpredictable

how could we act with pragmatism

while cascading down violently

into the earth we perish

enfolded in death.

Plunge

The breeze would gladly meet

her hesitant feet

as they cross and reach to the end.

Like great grinning teeth

the waves and rocks greet,

waiting to embrace their new friend.

Her earbuds dangle at her chest

faintly exhaling their best

eulogy for their oldest of friends.

She would feel blessed

to ride on that crest,

but that's not how this song ends.

She would see no hope

in that dangling rope

that offered to pull her to land.

Nor would she cope

with the strain of the grope

or the embarrassment of stretching her hand.

She'd wait for clouds to part,

her favourite song to start,

and then steady her now trembling hands.

Then she would brace her heart

and finally alone, she'd depart

thinking "This is living" as she lands.