What
is this thing -
this commune of souls
we now join?
Like calm weirpool’s rest
after spin of current
washing names
from stones.
You have entered me
and I have entered you
and we are one -
beneath the wind,
beneath the river kiss,
beneath even clefted earth.
And still we ask.
Watch now before you blink
Don’t miss the twinkling shards,
The spin against the water’s cloak -
No number counts these thoughts you think.
Catch now their roaring chains of light
Afore the smudden dull of winter night
Before the afterwards of summertide
Such ancient thrills that now evoke,
Must fade like silvered ink -
Return these borrowed hours
Masking season’s interlink.
All hear the Bellowhead
Sucking us in - like fireflies
Circling end of summer sigh
From young bucks leap
O’er old man’s grimace grey.
Like madrigal birds at dusk -
On accordion breath that heaves,
With fiddling sentry’s hotfoot dance
To circus lights and roguery.
Let it blow like Bucovina brass
And let us show our red flamed hair,
Then know this copper breeze
That hails a bellowed call
Of grand traditions,
In the air.
Beds not made,
and dusty sills,
the washing-up and
headache pills.
The harshest words
for smallest ills -
like huff and puff
on trundled hills.
The words not spoke,
the things undone
from plans not won,
and songs unsung.
The wasted time
like chastened sand
that falls on hands,
or clutched sunshine,
and two-few smiles
not feared of miles.
And all of the above,
is not enough.
‘You are beautiful’ he wrote.
Scribbled on a thousand notes.
Trailing morning route -
stuck on posts
and windows too.
‘You are beautiful’ she read,
and saw this thing he said.
Running to her head -
like crushskin bread
and tiny clues.
‘How beautiful’ she thought.
A lover’s kind report?
Or was this last resort?
Either way,
Quite obviously NOT
her sort.
I am not nude
nor posed
nor pre-supposed
I am not rude
nor exposed
nor juxtaposed
and I’m not crude
or self-imposed.
This matter’s
closed.
Such is passion you invoke
Much are feelings you provoke
Touched I am by tender stroke
Like hushing flame and twisting smoke
Lush sense knows you have awoke
Like midnight flush on new moon oak
I rush to hear the words you spoke
For such is passion you invoke.
Shut up, cut the cord
From you to a future come
Stretched but sanguine too.
All of you bloody poets
Who do you think you are?
How dare you feign to speak
For puzzled souls like me.
And just because you aim to voice
What I only sense inside
It doesn’t make you right,
It doesn’t mean you’re qualified.
You say the things the way you do,
To make me try and work things out.
Stop questioning the way I feel -
Start writing about you,
And who the hell,
You poets think
You are.
All human life is here,
And the water doesn’t mind.
Young wavemakers in laughter,
Mothers below the wash,
Fathers sucking stomachs in.
And the water doesn’t mind.
It doesn’t mind the chemicals
The toddler piss, the heated hiss
It doesn’t heed the constant churn
Of carefree souls that never learn.
All human life is passing through
Equal skin in belly of pool.
Dabbling playful shallow,
Daring deepest end,
Darkest unknown floor.
And still the water
Does not mind.