If I breathe, I breathe for thee
And every gasp of me doth resonate
With joyful air from ground to grove,
To mackerel sky above and back to me.
I breathe, I breathe for thee -
And atoms that we share agree.
oh
cast me
on the sea of you
like an ocean flower
lapping in the throw of tide
oh how you make me crave
the dive and clasp of pearls
the shifting sands below
from which I might rise
to driftwood breeze
and clips of wave
on sunset skin
triumphant in
the undertow
of you.
oh
throw me
onto ebb and flow
immersed in mysteries
that you alone can show
oh let me sail on motion rolls
that mark your seabound tack
on charts of journeys made -
by flowers lost then found
but never coming back
oh lift me, away…
drag me onto you
then into wonders
that only now
I dare to
know.
I was a black hearted storm,
Giant in the crack of sky.
Telling all to cower and hide
Like sodden lads shivering
Below cracked windowsills
And hidings from drip and drain.
I sent them daggers of rain
From a sudden underworld,
Sliced the air into fragments
Of stilled and hushed awe,
Undoing the buckle and brace
Of comfortable lives.
Then, I scratched the skies.
Gave them electric glint
Connected ground and cloud
To signal my amusement
And spun them like reels
Reaching end of spool !
Above, I laughed on.
Enjoying the drama
Of this pretence
Over these scurried ants
Seeking shelter’s vanity
Below the leaves that blow.
But then, I felt subdued
And muted in intent.
I saw the ground below
In circle of season’s clash,
Sensed the cries of broken corn
And their angled stalks in bow.
Did I feel remorse?
Did my hesitation signal
Limitation of my force?
I stopped, and sniffed
The air and earth below -
All fine with harvest’s scent.
There is nothing,
but this addiction.
This driving force
it forgoes good intent
to stay away, to just ignore
this all-day ache that grows
from worse to worse
and back again.
I don’t want
to speak
to you tonight
of moon or chemistry,
of souls or complex minds,
but I am marooned
by instinct’s pull
to bow again to you -
the reason for these
stumbling words.
There are things
I should be doing,
away from thoughts
of you, with your hold
as strong as honeydew
that gently catches me.
You are everything
and everywhere.
Lost in you, I am
abandoned in sweet hold -
blind and blurred by the
touch and flood
of you that makes me
forget these things
I should be doing
yet still remain
undone.
We kiss like Chinese fish
Like loaded inkbrush strokes -
Circling grain and ancient turn
(The kind you see in father’s books).
Like loaded inkbrush strokes -
We are dipped and saturated
Playful, but disciplined in arc and flow
Swept below the dark-watered lilies of night.
We are dipped and saturated
Circling grain and ancient turn
Swept below the dark-watered lillies of night,
We kiss like Chinese fish.
Dad
once kicked a ball
so high - I swear,
it disappeared
into the clouds
higher than the stunt kites
he taught us how to fly.
That’s how it seemed,
and I remember
the green of the park.
This was the day
when we found a weir
(the one I lost my shoe in)
teeming with flashing trout,
and I was just so proud
when he cast his line
and reeled them in.
Speaking of water,
we sometimes stayed
on his cabin boat.
Named after us kids it was.
We didn’t see him much,
so these were special times
that always ended with
wind-tinkling masts
and exciting next day plans.
He was a captain,
with an adoring crew.
And, he had THAT look too!
His jazz look.
It would embarrass me so -
all beatnik crazy.
Nodding, finger-popping,
shouting “yeah”,
with starey eyes
and big band styled
hep cat smiles.
Ah, If only
I’d realised then.
I’d want to write
a thousand lines,
a million words or more -
about him, about laughter
about amazement - about growing up.
But that’s selfish,
so I won’t.
Today,
I lost myself.
Just for an instant,
it wasn’t me
standing there
thinking about
who and what I am.
And for a moment
I was nothing,
but a thought
bodyless and free.
Floating beyond
the soft cage
that is me.
Then,
I remembered.
We dare not speak sometimes,
like children scared of grown-up things.
No wish to show our vulnerability,
we stare in silence, into the night
as would harboured wives who hope for light
on tearing ream of darkened sea.
We also share a strange, quiet, airless grace -
like canyon sealed butterflies, flitting.
From side to side - from mind to mind,
never risking wings in rockface flight.
And we dare not speak sometimes.
For kidnapped souls afraid to call
for muted hold of hidden keys,
for locks that bind the unsaid things.
Let’s speak up and hear
the untold thoughts
of you and me.
Not years, or months - this season leap
Like skimmed stones spun on cleaving lakes
Not days, or hours - that lover’s keep
Or driftwood sprites helmed in secret flow.
Not time, just feelings - like ocean’s bones
Kissing moon-drenched span and bow.
All these, measures of a fate we share
Born of waters we must come to know.
This is formally the begining
Of the longest poem ever written.
It will skip from serious to flippant
From prose to rhyme and back again.
It will change from classic style to free-form wild
It will twist and turn like a twisty, turney thing.
It will do WHATEVER it wants (or your own mood dictates).
Anything goes, but you must bear in mind -
This poem must never end.
How
many
heartbeats
are we allowed?
How many ticks and tocks
of nature’s arms will subdivide
the days and nights when we collide
to ponder beats of life that mark
the turnaround to end of dance and song?
No answer for you now, my friend - I have stopped the count.
And as the final levers fall, within I come to realise;
It - won’t - be - long.
Don’t look at me with naïve eyes,
like big splashed pebbles before sun
awaiting the kiss of eternal sea
or laughing curl of children’s toes.
Don’t look to me for all I can defy,
my vanity feigns to hold these years -
for you, who grows, whilst I stay old.
Don’t look back, don’t look ahead,
Don’t look now, don’t look, don’t look!
You’ll know when the moment comes
to race alone cross coarser sand,
towards the tide for running’s sake,
across the marks of necklaced time.
Then, you’ll look at me to say goodbye,
you’ll turn and wave, to face the spray
and I’ll throw away your little shoes.
We may not have a river
Or seats of learned wise,
Or spires of aspiration,
Like reverend pencils
Filling scribbled sky.
We may not have urbanity
Or graceful galleries,
And eruditious eateries -
For simple tillaged folk
Like you and me.
But, we have community.
Where gentle rogues
Still rake the moon
And lovers swoon
Through squinted eyes.
We watch the midnight downland
Bonfires marking boundaries
For all of us that now accept
Our compromise.
This is difficult to write
I prefer to flow and not to know
for you, my villanelle tonight.
Complex are you in your delight
that vexes my words that grow
This is difficult to write.
Men like me do not normally invite
such discipline of thought to show
for you, my villanelle tonight.
And to you, this must be slight
but me, I need to take things slow
This is difficult to write.
We’re near close of rhyme that fights
and traps words in this fixed tableaux
for you, my villanelle tonight.
And so it must end, this debt I owe
the spurs I earn and then forgoe.
This was difficult to write
for you, my villanelle tonight.
It’s a Saturday night
and we should be in love
but you and me
are in different rooms
and you read magazines,
whilst I read catalogues.
After all these years,
that’s not too bad -
but it feels like a void
that can’t be crossed -
a conversation we must have
about conversations
we need, to have.
How should we start?
It’s mine now.
I found it,
and you didn’t miss it
until I told you
where it was.
If it was yours,
how come you
didn’t care
for it before?
You can’t
have it back now -
this thing needs
unreserved attention.
Anyway,
you shouldn’t
have thrown
it away.
It’s not
about love.
Or sexuality.
It’s about the way we fit.
Like the turn of stream that clings to mountainside
or heirloom keys in Grandma’s hand
Like pillow dip for tired eyes
or children’s palms at Christmas time.
It’s not wanting.
Or desire.
More like embers in the glee of coal
or clustered stars that sing for soul.
It’s the last piece in the jigsaw
It’s the shipping news at night
It’s the words I wish I’d said.
We just seem to
fit.
Damn these currents that drag you down
and pull against the muddy rocks -
you don’t deserve such atrophy.
Spun and untoward in turbulence
that batters and crushes hope,
where gulps become swallow
of vile stew in which you sink.
My friend - just remember
to hold your breath, and kick
against this cruelest pull -
and you may again swim
toward the shallows.
Give me time
to speak of things.
when seconds tick
like flocks of birds
disturbed by change
and wind for wings.
Give me peace
and silent mull
for thoughts
like winter wine,
simmering
and warmed.
Give me all
you have
to spare
so I may save
the moments,
snatching songs
in these quiet
corridors.
Give me,
more.
We forget abandoned days and midnight wheels
turned on endless paths of spin and twist
We were in ecstasy of spiraled youth
with feet that dared to leap above
when hearts refused to stop and check
when souls entwined without rebuff
and now our patterned tattoo heels crack
and click for hours to fall away.
Like dancefloor ice and broken glass;
dust-brushing memories aftermorn -
our barefoot nights, now end.
Please, keep up your show and tell
to those of us, who cannot dance
but nonetheless remember well.
I want
to write
I really do.
But tonight
it doesn’t feel
quite right.
I want
to speak of her,
hair blown
like faerie breath,
brushing cusp
of summer air.
I want
to tell you -
the bees
were out today,
saluting
stretching
sun.
Sadly I must
leave this
for another
day.