Every tear that ever fell,
Every night of ocean’s swell,
Every scent and every smell,
And every year drawn from the well.
Every sunset that said farewell,
Every dancing molecule and cell,
Every stone that must rebel,
And on the memories we dwell.
Every peel of moon-tugged bells,
Every flow within the fontanelle,
Everything I shall foretell,
All, but whispers in the yell.
Between the coffee and the chocolate
that’s where we will be -
checking out, before the check-out,
eyeing basket tell-tailed groceries.
Our non touch dance without romance,
and furtive glance of no demand.
A flirtation, so subtly voiced
between the heaving aisles.
I watched you drawing,
and I was just so happy.
You crossed the road alone,
and found the best view
then set yourself up -
as if for the thousandth time.
Did you know I was sneaking
quick looks across the way?
You, sitting on that pavement box
like an awkward wunderkind.
Me, watching your head weaving,
back and forth - collecting
what you saw, placing it all
so carefully on the sketch
you drew so beautifully.
You looked so content,
so grown-up. I felt selfish
in my want for you to stay
forever in such a happy place
along with the scribblings
that marked your new adventure.
Ah well, at least you may remember
the day you drew a picture of our house
and the time you made your father
so very, very proud.
Who am I?
Well, I know this -
I am NOT you.
Unless of course,
you slept and dreamed
that we touched souls
in the night, merging
into one.
Who am I?
I am NOT who
you think I am.
Unless of course,
just in the thinking
you brought me into being -
formed me like some
imaginary friend.
Who am I?
Well, I’m NOT sure -
does it really matter
in the end?
Perhaps I am just
here, now,
in this moment
of you, wondering
who I am.
Let me think …
Is it almonds, butterscotch?
or chocolate coated marzipan?
It could be caramel even,
but it’s duskier than that.
Powdery, like sun dried sheets
or bathwater patchouli.
And then there’s citrus too,
(but not too perky)
like mulled wine
or lemon grove dew
in the morning.
All are scent of you.
Behind the puppet show
where children never go,
there stands a lonely man
who tugs the strings
that bind the arms
of childish things.
Behind the puppet show
and stripy canvas throws,
lie nervous little hands
with spinnered plans
to hide the charms
that clownhood brings.
Shame you missed the rainbow
I really wanted you to see,
it was like the edge
of a butterfly wing
magnified and stretched
across the sky.
Something about it
seemed so powerful,
so magical. I even believed
that on this strange day
it would curl from me
to you.
Caught you are
By your own invention.
That thing for which you previously cared.
Stuck you’ve become on the tangle side
Cat’s cradle threaded over hands with no thumbs,
Tripping steps through mask room of fate
Now resounding for someone else -
Someone you don’t know
(Or never knew).
Someone,
Never,
You.
There is always something,
something that reminds -
that marks the pass of time.
Like dusky click of clockwork hands
and helpless hold of hours lost,
like the always notching gears
and cogs of slowly whittled days.
Such things remind
of muted fate.
Every baby’s cry.
Every laugh and sigh.
Every question asking why.
All but moves toward
the final hammer call,
and echoed nails bullied down,
then buried under trickling soil
and stone that falls upon the quiet sleep
where creaking lichens grow.
There is always something,
something that reminds.
Listen to the sounds
of passing time.
You are the soft wind that circles
In orbit around my earthly heart
The ceaseless breeze that kisses
But never slows in its domain
Over me, in reign of bounded soul
Over helpless capstone sleeves
My close-eyed hope that waits
For arc and sweep and tilt to I
And change in your trajectory.
All blue in the old Beehive
We’re hearing full moon wail
Wall to wall with twitching men
Holding pints and keys on chains
Their nodding purse of wisened lips
And naive balls of leisured feet
Crane in spectacle of him -
In Sunday’s best and gravel voice;
All hailed might of Watermelon Slim.
It is time to re-arrange the coats and shoes
For it troubles us there are some we never use
Especially now, we’re on the cusp of sunny days,
Gone should be Wellingtons and brolly stand ways.
Soon, it will be time of evening birdsong chime
Of horizon jaunts and hushed marvels at the climb
We will sit outside with beer instead of rain,
Watching people flower in saunters up the lane.
It is time for naked sleep in moth-kissed breeze
Eventide pored with souls that race like bees
Towards wide-eyed ecstasy of resonant dawn,
And barefoot tip-toes over dewsoaked lawns.
I shall leave some words
for you to find when I am gone.
Words from the secret one -
written thoughts not dared to voice.
Words from the inside -
sculpted from imaginings,
into real, tangible things.
I will leave some words
for you who seek
a part of me that’s
left behind.
Not even poets know his name
This man who cuts all labels
from his virtuoso clothes.
And he who only speaks
through wistful
enigmatic notes,
has used no words
in weeks of history
with doctors and interpreters
from Poland, France (and Sweden too).
He has no voice -
slammed shut in mystery.
Incommunicado,
since that rain-soaked night
of sudden wandering
that puzzles all.
Did he fall out with someone?
Did he fall off a ship?
Did he fall off the world?
Listen how
he plays for solace
in his days.
As dark as weasel toes that dig for agate glow
Where once were diamonds below deepest coal
Here lie mudcoat stones of mortal kind
Some say as shaded magic cast in starless night
That hides from restless toil of hooded sky
Where shipwreck quiet must leak its hold
Then ride on nightmare’s angry foals
All spitting dust to claim,
Our ill-considered souls.
Older than I’ll ever be
and wider than the stars
wiser than desires of ours
boulder to the grains of we.
I am falling like leaf spun in autumn roll
Like a papered plane in downward fall
There goes grace in gravity’s hold
On this air of splintered boards
As if it is not the landing
that really matters
As if it is the
glide that
counts
.
She asks for Dandelions
but all I have is words.
Words like lemon, mane
or honeysticks
and beaconed yellow
fireworks.
Words,
that might resound
like sepal, petal, stamen -
even floral formula
diagrams.
All these stretch
to summer ankle fields,
from quietened sphere
of where I am.
Last night I dreamed, and saw your face.
Framed behind the shutters of sleep
it WAS you, clearly smiling at me!
This was a strange recognition
like seeing an amnesiac polaroid,
and yours, was a composite
of all the faces I have seen.
Was it really you?
There was something I longed to say.
Something carried across the miles,
held close and desparate to be heard.
But as I dreamed and saw your face,
you grinned, and I then knew the real you.
I forgot my dullard words and turned away,
no longer feeling need or want to say.
Oh,
see the high ones play
like red and blue inkspots
in the willowing sky.
There. See them lifting
way above the over-hang
that influences wind
of little hopes like ours.
We try so hard to launch
above the shoulders
of windless days.
But do we feel
despair below the frame?
Do we know
the twisted strings
of innocence and crash?
No! Such earthly bindings
mean nothing to us,
who stay determined.
Soon, we WILL
fly!
There is a place
of windless sails and wing-clipped wails.
An airless space of slackened time
like old corroded twine
tethering heartbeats and nobled spirit.
A place where muted calls of fate
becalm the soul embalmed by ancient fronds
of ice-dipped hope that mystify the telescope
on age’s sky - where once white lions
pounced and played and roared
to memories and shores
of a youth that never
could be yours.
A peerless raindrop caused the flood
Like a black cell in the cleanest blood.
This was the blink that turned to sleep,
The final rest to scythe its harvest’s reap.
This was the smear that blurred the sun
Through squinted looks that told us all
In whispers fanning flame of days,
Dried, the youthful leaves of one
Who once, could silence crowds.
With heartbeats and a single breath
Like a newborn calling the world
A tiny thought to change us all.
Such is the power of words.
I know
you miss the rhythm tree,
remembering too the seahorse sway
play and mystery through comb of song
writing itself in the pocket of time,
touching, feeling the roots -
in soil of sacred ground.
This is the beat
only entwined souls know -
the rustle of unification,
catching groove and flow.
Let me ask;
have you forgotten
the joyous seeds
memories can sow?
Maybe I should shout this from a mountain top
But I don’t have a mountain to hand
If I did, it would be a magical place
Sculpted from some rare stone to propel my words
Closer to you, rising highest above the rival peaks
Appearing, as if mist shrouded Tibeten legend -
Now being revealed, but only to you.