Now,
she glows.
Like a half-closed eye
soil blacked and dust edged,
cupped in the bowl of my palm.
Like the chalky rhodolite glow
of apache tears in the moonlight;
Warm, not burning - just
comfortably luminescent,
remembering the flame.
I watch her noble stand
against my fuel-less hand
and whistle breeze
to kindle thoughts,
of how we
used to
be.
I am pillow bound
to cradle hold
and rest my head
on crumbled ground.
I am willow sound
in river fold
and test my dread
of humble gold.
I am shallows found
in winter’s cold
bad times ahead -
a thousandfold.
Here’s to the Moon!
White skin stretched
and surface tuned
like a drum waiting
for rhythmic palms
and curious eyes.
Just look up
and play!
The Buddha and the Banjo
stand at the foot of a hill
and Banjo says; “I’ll race you” -
so Buddha nods; “You will”
With this the banjo frails
some pattern rolls into the air -
racing Buddha’s wind to mountain top
when he is already there.
Hello blue screen friend
Facing me beyond the glass
With eyes like tent peg holes
Hammered but not holding
The molten spent-wax bowls
Capturing final glow of
Night and time deferred
Poised like patient ornaments
That stare into the firmament
And wait for shooting stars
But sleep before they come.
What goes on in Party Room #1?
Up the three-tiered powder coated stairs
Above the standard frippery
Young mums know of attended fun
And tight banister climb to high-window
Ledged behind the plastic green.
Just take your shoe code -
And present it at the door.
Fresh
mashed
potatoes
with cream
and black
pepper
plus a hint
of chopped
garlic -
built
into a
hill-like
mound then
sprinkled
lavishly with
crushed hazlenuts
or pistachios
and copious cubes
of dolcellata cheese
(any blue will do).
Baked until crusty gold.
and ideally served
with tender Salmon
and sweet chutney -
following a
marijuana
starter .
There, he walks,
towards night polished floors
and fluorescent halls
with open cradled hands
waiting for something more.
His restless sauntering,
from pine-tree car to neon door,
clasped by shocked moon air
through nostrils clipped
like moth-winged frost
and cigarettes.
No-one sees anyone here,
that’s why he comes.
For here is calmed
by nothing more than
pale coffee spills
and empty echo calls -
no distracted solitaire
in this abandoned whale hall.
There is just enough to see
but not enough to hear,
of white noise elevated
above daylight residues
in silent bench and bell.
And now he sits quietly,
like an actor ruminating
over a difficult audition -
re-running all the things
that should be said.
Bottom floor - lowest level,
baggage claim - thinking…
among the reverbed booths.
His question spot -
where confusions disappear,
beyond polite knowing glance
and hollow announcements.
Beyond the awkward entourage
of worry and complication.
Here, just him and the night staff,
invaluable backstage helpers all
moving the props in readiness
for tomorrow.
How many words are there
Hiding behind the trees
Lying on dampened clay
Like pieces of fallen sky
Downed amongst the leaves.
Who feigns to voice
Our once danced swallow call
Now earthly staged before the night
Who notes these patterns bound
By silvered threads of awakening
Unpicked in meanings found
And now, the warm caress of … this
Our fumbled hold in nature’s furl
Like passioned gulp of lover’s dew -
Overflowing, with everything
I need to say to you.
We cling
to the wreck
of our respect
both scared
to venture beyond
the broken island
on which we stand.
Steady, but churlish
on the currents
like tiny splinters
in gulley hold
of waited roar
and waves compelled
to driftwood claim.
Us, craving foothold
on the fading shore.
Fifteen
minutes
and counting
That’s all
I’ve got
But don’t watch
the clock
I am tapping
on these keys
waiting
for some thoughts
to come to me
But now ten mintes
is all I have
that’s less
than I had
before
Where did
the minutes go?
Oops - now it’s
down to eight
and they’ve
gone again
Thing is,
I can’t be late
or make
people wait
Whilst I’m on seven
then I should
perhaps surmise
or offer
finishing lines
maybe
then wisely save
the final five
for edItIng
and cut ‘n’ paste.
Who knows?
There’s three to go
and now I’m
feeling low
Have I said
anything of note?
Have I spoken
to you?
Too late!
I’ve stopped
tapping on the keys
Waiting for thoughts
to come to me.
I am seeing less,
but more than Summer’s tired flare
On litmus sky above tapered mound
and rough-torn tissue paper hill.
I fall below the errant wind,
under etched-mist tears big as Oaks
that sense call rippled nature’s bell
and threaded cloud in wonder’s curl.
I feel something growing in this land
See it glow with change and knowing -
It is a time of flow and rise.
These sudden sparks of joy
are freaking me.
Young for five minutes.
How do you know
how to stand?
Unsteady feat.
What do you know
of the land?
Calmed for us.
How can we begin
to understand?
Shuffled
On the gold-pan
River swelled
Beyond the bank
The glint of you
Remains unseen
Beneath the gravel
Shunted frame
All but watertwist
Flow of silt caress
And soft motion firm
On change’s ground
Brightest sparkle
In the vortex swirl
Our shaken joy
Of quivered hold
Against the pull.
Step across the Sleepscape
Travel sandman’s track of night
Raise a torch above the walkways
So I may see the light.
Jump the dreampulse arc between us
Ride the curl of torpor’s tail
For you are moonlight’s pillowed muse
In the dreams that you ignite.
Meanwhile,
the world spins
and strange string
pulls the gyroscope
on arms of time.
Hard truth rolls
this drawn arch bow
rounding glass spine
compass reel.
Above the poles
like clunky kids
on dusty fairground ride
skipping caller’s dance
of push-tin picadors
and broken wheels.
May you always glide
circling in blithe orbit,
grasping slipstream
haloed bracelet sky -
defying grace’s fall.
Upstairs, downstairs, everywhere
Name calling women with cherry lipped smiles
Soothing the nervous, fending trolley clatter roll
Adjusting the silent clocks that see and know.
The muted wait, the bedded and begowned
White faced examined in skipped gaze partner glance
All make do and mend in vertigo swirl of truth
Where one room’s laughter turns.
Notice the polite camaraderie?
Moved through hollow corridors of anaesthetic air
Redolent - like Christmas left-overs
And blank page turn of musty magazines.
The hopeful cold shuffles of the fearful
Toward the tip-toes of the well
Here, there’s no checking in - just trolley spin.
I hate this strange hotel.
There must be more than dust
and footprints marking chalkfoot climb.
Onto bent leaf trail and belly of hills
who views the haloes of seeds you plant,
who knows their downwind bloom?
You have grown along the way
soil scratched and tilled with mannered care,
stamped contoured paths for those not near
the remembered first stepped falls
of youth alone that dare not yield.
So pause to raise a harvest high,
hold up trophies found for all to spy -
be prideful in what your shoulders bear
then turn, towards the rise
where you head now.