Rudimentary Rumblings

Virulent vitriol, violent in his hate,

erupting without encracity -

flaught infant flocks watch him vesuviate;

he devours young hope with voracity.

Fremescent rocks rained from the mouth of his vent,

a fusillade of barbed, bellicose bricks -

burning the innocence of all where he went;

sending souls along the lava of Styx.

But through the rumbles, the roots where he stands

grow a verdure still of verdure and pure - 

remaining unmoved by chaos he demands;

standing up for all hope; steadfast and sure.

That rubicund ridge could foam in its threats

but dowsed with indifference and peril wets.

On the Mount

Incandescence on the mount, a thumbprint of sun sat

on the summit as swallows bob through haircut branches.

a certain someone alone with grass;

his thoughts are moths his skull of wool.

nature’s cut to frames, still her light restores his centre.

flakes of fairy dust feather my eyelids—

sharing design, or something intimate

to imbue and bond below a yew and imbibe

chimney smoke escapes the terraces below

and

wind of near seasons knock the day.

What If

A child in the supermarket,

clutches tightly their mother’s hand

makes micro-observations;

the height of the ceiling

and where the pipes may go,

counting the tiles on the floor

and creating an equation to match. 

what direction the shadows are cast.

It is a human desire to wonder – what if?

Allowing minute, insignificant things to manifest and grow

a trait often exclusive to a child’s psyche.

But by no fault of their own

a child

entranced by the ceilings

the floor tiles and the shadows

might not be so wary of the bigger things in front of them;

usually a pole, sometimes a window

but rarely a person

another child

who much the same would

never realise the other was there.

Fate wouldn’t bear good news, nor would it caution them 

their paths would just cross prematurely 

each afforded the other’s presence 

ten years too early and without 

the butterflies.

In the meantime, they fade

each clutching their mother’s hand

going their separate ways until they meet again.

For now, to each other, just shadows, only foreshadows.

My Palace

I caught your scent on my pillow

your fragments sewn into my skin;

the soft satin of your presence

is so pleasant to get lost in.

So I inhale your existence

and I choke myself on your fumes;

I walk slowly down your hallway

and I explore your fragrant rooms.

Your love houses my happiness

like a palace, vast and pristine

yet in homely intimacy

all is so dreamily serene.

Nightmare

Soft whispering, in my ears, or my head?

I turn and look, see and feel the new fear.

Thick black scars on hands and wrists where it bled.

Doom sighs, shifts and shudders as it draws near,

reaches for the mask, the face it’s wearing.

A cruel dark creature of towering gore.

Long nails dig under chin and scalp, tearing.

Its grinning visage flops onto the floor.

I’m running and my doom is pursuing.

I don’t want to die, not here, alone.

I hear it laugh, my flight is amusing.

Its talons rend my flesh and piece my bone.

I wake, my fears are once again my thrall.

But to be safe I turn and face the wall.

Haze Loop

Mist ascends in morning's haze

as dreamers dare to dowse their daze,

but vapour's hold

can only fold

underneath the burning rays.

Underneath the burning bright

the goldfinch tells of her delight,

her feathered flow

is soft and slow

singing in the midst of flight.

Singing in the mid of day

the goldfinches have flown away

so too has gone

the sun who shone;

mist ascends in renewed haze.

Autosarcophagy

If I could eat through these walls of hard bone

to find an exit from my dingy cave

then my jaw might clamp onto some unseen zone

that leaves me with fresh strategies to save.

I know that soon my gnawing teeth will yield

when they start to pierce the layer of thick skin

that's worn so thin it can no longer shield

my empty vessel from the mess I'm in.

I've come to terms with my fruitless escape

now that I've noticed I'm my own jailer

and if this prison is one I can't reshape

then I will remain wrapped up in failure.

But I will still keep biting at my skull

for my restless stomach is never full.

Broken Black Glass

|                                          .lɒnimɿǝɈ 

|                                         bǝmǝǝb ƨi 

|                                bloʜ ƨǝʞɒɈ ɈɒʜɈ 

|                         noiɈɒυɈiƨ ɔiɈpǝƨ ǝʜɈ 

|                 liɈnυ bǝɿonϱi γlǝϱɿɒl Ɉυb 

  |                  Ɉnǝƨǝɿp niɒp bǝυbbυƨ ʇo 

|              noiɈɔǝlʇǝɿ ǝƨnǝɈ lυʇiɈip ǝʜɈ 

|                                               mɒ I . 

|                                      ɈnǝmɈnǝƨǝɿ 

|                                ϱnibnυoƨǝɿ bnɒ 

|                       ǝnob bǝƨopxǝ Ɉpǝɔxǝ 

|                                  Ɉʇǝl ƨi ϱniʜɈon 

|                           bnɒ nɿow ǝɿɒ γǝʜɈ 

|                         liɈnυ niʞƨ nǝʞoɿb ʇo 

|              ƨɿǝγɒl nǝǝwɈǝb ƨǝbilƨ ɈɒʜɈ 

| ƨƨɒlϱ ʞɔɒlb ʇo bɿɒʜƨ bǝɿǝɈɈɒʜƨ ǝʜɈ 

|                                                  mɒ I

 _____________________________

Bare Branches

I look out to see the branches are bare

but I don't remember seeing leaves fall.

It seems we go from having it all there

seamlessly to having nothing at all.

It makes me wonder just when did they leave

and where have the vibrant times gone?

Has the sun merely had a small reprieve

or has the light permenantly moved on?

I know that there will be new leaves to grow

but there's a cold winter to endure first,

and if the branches can shake off the snow

then I can cope with old leaves being dispersed.

We've suffered the season's sudden refresh

but we can look forward to starting afresh.

A Change of Routine

A change of routine

new sizes in shadows

I step into open skies.

A loss of lush green

no singing of sparrows

Summer has seen her demise.

I'd usually mourn

a farewell to flowers

and the beach days that have been

but all is reborn

and within my powers

is the chance to change my routine.

Shepherd Tones

Chairs have been sitting on me

with jumping beans flashing green,

just sleep and you will see

I can only live what we can dream.

I'm not sorry for my smile

but my bleary eyes say otherwise,

let us rest for just a while

and we can sing to the sunrise.

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).

A September's Sunday by the Sea

Light catches all that comes out to greet it;

glints glittering in pebbled hills

glints glittering in the ocean's wafered waves,

glints glittering in Sunday's satisfied eyes.

Sounds orchestrate for those who hear its silent cacophony;

a crash of footsteps, uneven yet definitive,

a crash of waves, constant and icy,

a call for company, cold and unconvincing.

The breeze joins in, droning docile;

moving the flickering corner of this page,

moving overhead, a plane's engine sings and a father's finger

moving, pointing duly to the sky for his squinting son to see.

A cloud of delicate birds mould into forms,

migrating south, grasping the warmth with their wings

and faintly heard behind is the constant hum of traffic,

Sunday drivers strolling coastal roads to coastal towns.

All is quiet and peaceful

if I let the surroundings relax my mind.

All is noisy and vibrant

if I let the surroundings focus my mind.

All is beautiful.

Contrasted Cliffs

In layers of scratches and incisions

your form evolves along the bumps and bends,

shaped by passing time and man's decisions

where sturdy lives may meet their crumbling ends.

But amongst the chalk, granite and the sand

there is something of beauty to be found,

for throughout the differences of the land

it's all anchored by the same common ground.

So let age not define your sense of self

nor be it the colour you have been formed,

you are not your possessions or your wealth

but sculpted by the beliefs you have formed.

Do not discriminate texture or tone

but see beauty in all kinds of stone.

#Sunsets

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

Corners

Half-light
            l i t t e r e d
e      m      p      t      y
                                    cor
                                       n
                                       e
                                       r
                                       s
like fingers on metal bars
and seeping in, you
illuminated the - idea -
of a world passing by
                                                                    outside,
awaiting analysis and accentuation, like the
cor
n
e
r     of my room.

A Year

In winter's nights I see your shine

but in summer's days it's more divine.

My jaw just falls as footsteps spring

as I clasp onto a light that's mine.

I see with time the light wont fade 

but brighten with each moment made

as I seek into the the season; you

make my mind assured and less afraid.

So one short trip around the sun
is a lifetime of love, just begun.

As the sun, life revolves around you -

like the Earth, I am smiling and spun.

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.

Tip

I keep my desperate delights locked away

in an airtight sealed bag

until long nights of longing,

hedonistic heart and aching feet,

disparate dissonance in decrescendo

and rapid crescendo returning.

I am saved for another day

as my suspect aspects widen

and I am short of breadth.

Ebb and Flow

White foaming waves,

roll pebbles cruncing

hard into smooth,

overhead swoop shadows

falling and rising

in circular motions.

Motions circular in

falling and rising,

shadows swoop overhead,

smooth into hard,

crunching pebbles roll,

waves foaming white.

Bled Colours

Primary manifestations

of secondary thoughts,

my colours all bleed into one.

Letting the sun's heat saturate

the pondering of pores

and the contrast of thought is gone.

Such is the richness of colour

I have no want to mix

but to bask in vividity.

Yet a citrus drop on my tongue

in nectar hydration

heightens my stroke's lucidity.

So I let the tool fall freely

as the waves roll in eights

and the skimmed stone ripples sixes

but then a cloud conceals the rest

and the tide's creeping in

until all my colour mixes.

My Enchanting Ghost At Night (Day 30)

Majestic emeralds, green and neon,

might encapture God's almighty nirvana.

More Earthly grace already noted;

madefying every gossamer as nectar...

my enchanting ghost at night.

The Heart's Hits (Day 24)

You are the petrichor,

mon chéri amour,

after a summer's drought.

Earth-scented and pure,

in lush refreshed verdure,

I'm dampened and devout.

A hoppipolla bliss

as raindrops dance and kiss

on ill-advised outfits.

We seem to be insane

as we're singing in the rain

to all our favourite hits.