stonepoem : 365

What in Heaven is nature doing now?
Her summer leaves are turning autumn brown
Some say it must be salted wind that blows
Such clement air for Aphid’s frothy crown.
But cause for rusted windburn on the green
Prefers the pause and muse of pagan wells
For grey futures not yet known or seen
Are heard like peeled notes from fractured bells.
She knows the leavened denature of ways
That bond the who we are - to how we’ve been
Staring oil blunted in stunted gaze
At slow decay of wonder’s stay unseen.
And so we blank the signals that she sends.
Complacency, denies our season’s end.

You are the amber snow
on the mountain top of who I am.
The electric arc glimmer
crossing the cold lake of me -
a white poppy in the rape
of my doubt

I found a four leaf clover
It wasn’t sought - it just occurred
For me to peer below my tread and look for trove of luck.
I’ve wished upon its rarity for payback of my random find
Willing some consideration in the grand schema of being
Yet still I wait like a worn old coin resting on its side
Hoping the blackened cat of happenstance will show
The way that things could fall.

Only the heated pins of questioning
Can melt this wax figured spin
That denies the state we’re in.

Muting the padded batteries of flattery
To begin the ritual Voudoun dance
Of trance to Legba’s altered flags.

Raise them high on the air of denial!

Someone’s,
been cranking the handle
turning the gears of my day.
Mustering iron-like crunch of persistence
to tilt the balance of who I am.
They’ve been winding up the clock
with hands that circle the hours of my ways,
leveraging dedication with obligation,
and burdening my arms with plans to catch
the spinning cogs of responsibility.
I’ve been resisting the pull of these loaded wheels,
slipping the notches - slowing the steel pull of their load,
vaguely dodging my interlocked dependence on normality.
All this just to spy between twain and spite of grind -
straining to catch a fleeting glance of a silvered albatross,
cutting through the soaring blue above the machine.

That, is the beautiful distraction of you.

A fishball is
rotating round
the scrapes of
my luncheon
but only one
winner is in the
swim.

His shoalsnap
on the turn
of hunger’s tide
jumps at the sun
through surface
shroud.

I think of us
with all the
to and fro
of being, and
our own chase
for instinct’s
ride.

But for now
it is time to go -
the wasps are
out.

There’s a poet in the city,
bringing the lungs of emotion
to silver glass and steel.
Instant soul for the nervous,
throwing off corporate robes
wearing pressed badges of
attentiveness to the wonders of grind.
Suited hearts wilt under his proxied duress.
They say; “Bravo! This IS emotional,
look - we have the graphs
to prove it.”

Close

your eyes.

Picture the way

these words stumble

down the page. Visualise

the shape and form of what

they say. Evoke strong feelings

within yourself at the mysteries

conveyed. Just close your eyes

and imagine…