Stop reading now.
This poem is not for you.
It’s for someone else -
someone close,
someone who goes
behind the meaning
of these words.
Still here?
I thought you’d stopped.
Well maybe you and me
could talk another time?
There’s nothing here
for you today -
for you that feels,
for you that walks
along the lines.
Please - leave now.
I need to be
alone.
He is grinning,
Like a coldwax peach
Curled and constant,
On guard like a twisted
Forever-slept dog
Or a sleepover sigh
Echoing daydream
Stilted night.
They’ll be
No melting of this
Strange wax though,
No turn that breaks
The seal of time
Stood high upon
His rough hewn
Armature.
He grins,
Because of will of us
Who traipse to watch,
Along the path
That never wavers,
That never arcs
Like aspic oxbow
Frozen flow.
A thousand, thousand
Footsteps seek and feel
With tread and weary romp
Of seeded needs.
All buried deep
He holds his poise
Then contemplates
Why it is that he alone,
Should be the one
Who smiles.
He sends her blue horses
On the reins of a smile
His love for her riding
On the backs of the miles
He sends her blue horses
They run from heart to soul
Across the great divide
Branding union of whole
Where stallions race
To sacred lover’s place
And heartbeats rise in mist
And horizon kisses sky.
He sends her blue horses -
But only she knows why.
Don’t tell me
what you want
me to say,
or show me
what you want
me to see.
Don’t mark
the path
that I’m
not on,
or ask
what you
already
know.
Have you
forgotton
to remember?
I’m not that
dumb.
Bless these guys.
It’s almost like
reality is not enough.
Like glass lensed auteurs,
whose life just has to be seen
through mechanical eyes -
selecting and zooming
then editing the view.
No margin for error or surprise
in captured moments held
in satisfied frame,
in control of all they feel.
Neatly filing happiness
with f-stop calibration,
they can’t tell you
how wonderful something is
but they can show you
the photograph.
For the man who pushed my daughter out of the way
with his pumped up lens…
Don’t stop,
and don’t look back.
Every day has possibilities
for something new, something majestic
amongst the drudgery - a shining hope
glistening with flare of optimism’s flame
burning like magnified sun.
I was thinking
about Neruda and Rumi
and all these other folks
who I’ve never read.
Feel like such a phony -
I must read more
before I’m dead.
This house is just too small
For all these knick-knack memories
Stuffed in crevices and laid out
Like lingering refugees on the floor.
This junk we keep for old time’s sake,
This baggage piled but never sorted
Everywhere a story, everywhere a tale
And all those secrets never told.
It’s time we got this place
Cleared out, done up, and sold.
Let’s do it now, before
we grow too old.
The shoots are out and blood feels flow
Of inner tide and undertow. The sun,
Alert to season’s bow, pulls chord
Of cloud-winged fanfare call,
To signal start of this -
A most extraordinary
Of shows.
You know what?
You were really
cool today.
And as they say;
“the coolest ones.
are those that
do not know”
I was suitably
impressed
with the way
you handled
yourself.
So cool,
so confident,
so right.
Like a tall man,
humble amongst
infants.
Like an icecube,
holding court
in melting
snow.
The night draws in the blanks
The day has left behind.
For troubled hearts like ours
That pine for rest through sleep
And soul becalmed below
The unprimed stars.
This healing shroud reveals,
The eventide balm that soothes
Us, bruised beneath the satin flags
Of sky like whispering waves -
To moon, upon, unseen, unbound.
Urging flight above the confines -
The brutish hold of gravity,
defied.
Astrophe was responsible for the end of the world -
A problem for Amaran who was sailing the globe.
Then there was Alogue who wrote it all down
And Hode of course, painting pictures for all.
Next came Holic, preaching holiness and peace
To Erpillar and Egory dividing lines from his book.
Kneeling below old Hedral’s cloistered beams
Harsis quietly waits for inspiration of heart
Behind quick witted Apult (the first to arrive)
And philosopher Ching, with Alyst in tow.
All purring vainly, that THEY were the ones
Who started it all.
Hello and sorry.
We havn’t spoken lately have we?
I’ve been too busy being selfish
digging around in my own sodden mine,
not thinking about you and things
you are also looking for.
It’s very difficult you see.
Sometimes, I just have to go
into myself, burrowing through
the lumps and bumps - digging
beneath my own world.
You know what?
The very next words
will be just for
you.
I can’t
decide if you are mine
or happenstance that falls
like bonfired leaves
on unsuspecting
souls like me.
I can’t
explain.
This grand design,
this torch you hold
that shines and warms
my heart, like …
wintered fairground rides
in turning sun, awake
and overjoyed
to be alive.
I can’t
ignore your
beacon reach
that tugs my soul -
swaying colour greyed,
from numb of age
to weight of days.
I can’t
exist without
the growth and flow
of you, of all you are,
and may become.
I simply can’t
deny this love I feel.
I can’t, I can’t,
I can’t.
My head is a palace of song
Where sleepy kings and families
Do lie and wait for melodies
That raise the slumbered heart
And teach the dance of life itself.
My head is a golden opera
Where Divas sing of passion
Of life’s regret and tragedy
And grand style dramas played
To dressed coat balconies.
My head is a cathederal cave,
Explored by none but bats and stalagtites,
And darkened echoes that call for me
To strike a match and read scribblings
Of singers and songs, of dances over flame.
I hear this music, but wait …
For stone ochred harmony in the night,
For feeling wind sighing against the walls,
For determined tone through maze of souls.
All resolved in lone-voiced melody, arpeggio blown
Into the nothingness - singular, beautiful, pure.
I am waiting for god’s wistful call.
They, were so happy
layed out on my bed.
Toe to toe, and length
to length. Ribbed ones
pleased, to be with
partners, previously
lost to wash of fate.
Rejoiced in commune
of conditioned skin,
embracing friends and
kin. Now untangled from
the sorry state that they
were in. I watched couples
sort themselves - into
groupings, and those that
shouted, got down with
those, that didn’t care.
Fingering threads, like a
passion blinded creature
fumbling and pawing his
way, I watched this orgy
of togetherness and am
hereby ashamed to say -
that I, joined in.
We used
to visit often,
and take a sip
from this cold, clear pool.
But now it tastes different -
like a stilled pond where mudfish play,
where every day they battle and stir the clay
just to cloud the sweetness of our stay.
Maybe we should wait until they settle down,
await return of flow that takes away the earthen taste.
But on the other hand, maybe there are springs
and brooks beyond this place we know so well?
Perhaps we should at least, walk on a bit
and take a look.
I’d prefer to be seated
when you give me the news.
Is that O.K? I know it’s coming,
I’ve seen the signs you see -
the struggled smiles,
the cutting sighs,
the hunch of compromise.
Just so you know,
it wasn’t that I didn’t
care or try, it was more a case
of feeling paralysed.
I knew full well of my neglect -
the wonderful you I did forget
whilst focussed on the wanderful me.
Oh how vain, to think alone like that
not to reckon on a more co-operative life.
To rush ahead ignoring my second heart
that sang, then spoke, then whispered
but now is quietened by dulled regret.
And yes, this is all my fault and I know,
it’s time to come to terms with you,
who thinks of ending things,
whilst I prefer to sit.
Staring at this blinking curse,
I don’t much feel like writing tonight.
But still I’m pushed and pulled,
by what is now habitual.
This is a mad obsession,
that has chosen me,
Before, I was ordinary -
not enslaved by this … poetry.
Just one more line, one more thought,
One more punctuated night, to drive
the nagging demons from my mind,
then I can rest in peace - forgetting
poems that are never, quite right.
Afterwards.
Breathing more,
tired bones re-aligned
from hunched disposition.
Inside, the curl of change
like snapping chains
and knots untied -
teased threads undone,
winter ribbons
frayed by afterwind.
In knowing
all is even now -
no fractured sleep
or shuddered night
to steal the soul,
pour freedom’s gold
in leaden mould.
Now gone choked days,
and shutter eye nights
forgotten mutterings,
of chipped-cog cries,
all but silenced now.
Through defiant eyes,
stare straight on
past tense, past all -
see your toils spent
in preparation,
for this event.
Stitch me,
like a badge -
line me up like a label
on your sleeve.
Carry me like
mother’s day flowers,
arranged and parading life
and love for all to see.
Let me, cling like dust
to the weave and fold of you,
raised against your thread and hold.
Upon the arms of we.
Just for a moment,
we were young again.
Back below the teenage sheets
and drinking wine from cracked cups,
overflowed with confidence
in awe, of our togetherness.
Just for a moment …
we were unbeatable -
forgetting hours and duty
beholden of ordinary folk.
Intoxicated, like circling moths
chasing torchlight in the dark.
Just for a moment,
we were cradled and held
like old spoons in a drawer,
rattled silvered skins, but bold -
just wanting to stay together,
in love forever where we lay.
And then, we slept.
I’m an amazing drunk, but rather average when I’m sober.
For it is only the warming hold of alcohol that makes me feel so bold.
From timid to terrific in a few spirited gulps of secret fuel.
Then, I become strong - able to silence rooms with strange discourse
and amazing tricks with cocktail sticks.
Incredible! Such … courage, such bravery -
all poured from a bottle of ferment.
From start to closing time I’m always first
to fall over on the finish line.
Superpowered - that’s me!
Able to trip kerbstones in a single bound —
‘Look, down in the gutter,’ ‘Is it a rat?’ ‘Is it a drain?’
‘No! it’s … Superdrunk!’ ”
Hell, I can even talk out of my arse
sometimes.