The water cries
Through bloated hands
Outstretched to catch
The slamming doors
That one by one
Undo their hold.
They, the nailed souls
Pummelled and bent
Now held below
Like corroded pins
In ocean’s spill
Bleached and sunk
And stilled in fall.
Waiting for the hammer
and its weary call.
Poets are weirdos.
They can’t help it, they just are.
Not for them the bravura strange
Of painters, or stucco bloom
Of eccentric musicians.
Poets are just plain …odd.
Look at them - shuffling thoughts
On scribbled worry scraps
Memento pointing treasure maps
Of found ideas on midnight notes
Squirreled safely away like eels
In the pockets of a hobo.
And then, they speak!
I must admit
to an obsession.
24 feels like 72 without you.
You are illuminated gold
for unkempt souls like I.
I’m here, every night.
Hunched like a fortress archer
stooping down to spy
on the blinking hearts
that stumble by.
You are skeleton wish-skin,
like crisp white parchment
blown through the stillness
of damp alleyways waiting
for elegant replies.
I don’t wish to tear
the twin suede binds you bring;
habit and urge - the addictions
you have become. I love you,
in another guise.
Fix sequined hearts
to outstretched firs,
and spotlight’s catch
on needle arms.
Hang foiled smiles
then bury them
in green of dawn and wait
for gold-noosed days.
Come sparklesnakes
and silvered dew
and chocolate
in the mornings.
This time of year,
this very night,
this very moment -
let us decorate
the trees!
I am smiling
like an upturned boat
flipped over by the sea of you,
suddenly caught on the turn.
I let go the sail and hold
nothing more than memories,
for you are the ocean on which I drift,
now surrendered to moontide’s pull
and salt-kissed wandering.
Where are you taking me?
We listen
The trees urge us to
For noise in the noise
For voices crying out
And solitary melodies
Resting on their hanging limbs
Resting in their bellied boughs
Resting at the roots of the hill.
Sounds of tumbling leaves
On temple stone and sandcastles
And avatars and StumbleBlogs
Changing the space around us
All for contentment’s sake.
The only thing time gives;
To build, to create, to generate -
The singers not the song
Bringing hope when we listen
In this flooded wood.
There is one,
in the many sweet voiced souls.
Singing proud like a joyous bell
amid the peel of fluted tones
through cherried cheeks
and beauty’s song.
She is mine, and I am proud
of her, dancing beyond the crowd -
a voice apart of lilting gild
that brushes single tear’s fall
upon this love that hides
within my melting heart.
I’m your hot-fix #1
Moving round the world
From point to point
And peer to peer
From here to there
Through protocols
Of packet ping
And patch plug-ins
From screen to screen
And transfering
Extensions to our
progress tracking
Completion pending.
Just don’t stop!
Click me again!
Oh click me good.