stonepoem : 365

I looked
to the funeral trees
and they looked dead like me
naked in this winter breeze
I turned
to the funeral trees
and they seemed black to see
wretched lost and born of thieves
I walked
to touch the funeral trees
and they stood firm in sombre creed
with sacred bond to spite the freeze
I fell
to lie among the funeral trees
and watched them change
and saw them grow
and soon I slept -
how gentle were
their pleas.
I dreamed
a hymn of funeral trees;
Come summer, come now please -
and time is now,
to unfurl
leaves.

A man
needs a shed
takes the clutter
from his head
lays it down
on musty beds
tight against the edge
stained but only
partial red
a man
needs a shed
it takes away
his heart of lead
a place to dwell until
the world is pure
and nearly
bled
with creosote
and sodden pine
with scattered pins
on earthy weathered twine
all friends within
a secret place
to mine the mind
a space where men
have always fled
and every man
deserves
a shed.

And the cells
in my eyes
are twitching
like flies
and the wells that
now rise
sink constructed
disguise
and the yells,
thin like ice
and the wails
and the lies
are you feeling like I?
can you bother
to try?
the cells
in your eyes
are twitching,
like flies.

You took the path
and I rode the motorway
in comfort got there quick
driven not by me
You shook the ashes
and I switched on the T.V
feet up late night squinter
sofa fugged and beat
You looked the way I did
and I looked back
creak neck creased
money almost spent
threadbare slack and given in
I once mistook you - I’m sorry.
Remind me how
I used to be.

Happy new year!
Said the new
But what of the old
Thought I.
Isn’t it great?
We’re never late
And so felt the few
But nought
felt I.

Bring ash of dawn
Where honour has no moon
As Lunar marks the heart
Of rising dust and crack’d lawns.
All sing in cached yawns
All shake our greying swans
On hiving rust and stack’d pawns,
We stare on days gone far
Too soon.

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.

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.