stonepoem : 365

I know the way.
Every inch and mile
each turn and blur
every waypost sigh,
I know the way.
Yes, I do.
And I know you.
And we both know
it’s time to move.
Lay the landscape bare
unbutton roads -
each lane and every track
open to the journeys
never coming back.
I know the way.
Turn left, turn right
straight over keeping on.
We will have miles
beneath our wheels,
like every breath
that ever was -
like every glancing move
like each wilful lover lost
we will travel on.
I know the way
I really do -
don’t stop, don’t stop
until I say.

Destination.

I am
on a train and
fate is faster than I
sleek and slipstream sharp
like an arrow, twisting
through all I know now
inevitable, like a silk flag
stretched and tacked
my talisman, now my target
sewn with silver pins
worn to show a difference
torn now by indifference
raised up for my deliverance.
And I am on a train,
again.

We swam out and said come on in.
and so they did but where are we?
Still swimming, still dreaming, still?
The trouble I believe is ours not theirs
and now we must admit we do not know -
what shall we do? What happens next?
Let us follow on awhile and see.

Once,
I had a thought.
It was small
It was vulnerable
And it was very brave.
Like a tiny fish
Without a shoal
Lost and circling,
And puffing-up
Two times -
maybe four.
Couraged gainst
The sharpened teeth
By some pretence
This little fish,
This little thought
Swam on.

Stilled am I in lull of night
No ocean’s move save salted spite
And where go I in loose-rigged winds?
No bounding heave, no push and cleave,
No rising line or white-mane minds.
All quietened like the muted damned,
Horizon-fixed with tar glued stares
Through eyes that blaspheme stars,
And with curses for a speechless sea
And the stolen shore yet far way.
I lie silent, waiting and becalmed.
Just these thoughts for company.
Oh take me home to those,
that wait for me.

Oh, sorry.
Didn’t mean to offend.
I was just … resting here awhile
Thinking on things, journeying inside.
The rules involved weren’t clear to me,
I did not think you’d mind so much.
Me, just sitting and watching
This world and others passing by,
Not knowing you demand a show.
Tell you what, give me a few more days.
Just need to collect my thoughts
Before moving on.

Meet me,
at the first dream to the left
after the midnight bells.
I’ll be the one wearing a cape
made from peacock’s pride,
and a satin patch over
the wrong eye.
I mean it!
I’ll be there!
Waiting,
for someone -
someone like I’ve never met
(but have always known).
Someone carrying magic
in the heels of their shoes.
But how will I know
if it is you?

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.

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.

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 got in the car,

and he said to me;

“Do you believe in infinity?”

We headed off as he grinned in glee,

and drove a thousand miles per hour

down a one-way street.

This one’s for the quiet ones,
The ones who sit and wait -
The people leaning at the back
Depended on to take the slack.
This one’s for the mild souls,
The some who stir no wave -
The some preferring calm
To seas not yet as plotted brave.
To reticent hearts, to those
That softly speak - go prideful
In hushed guile and gentle leap,
Over paths on which you seek.

The road fools.
Innocence and trust
are far away.

You whisper in the engine whir.

Routes pass.
Through hungry night
Grinding me like
old teeth crunched
in ache and hope.

You grin in headlamp gleam.

No room to muse.
On more than road,
or space for touch
or breath of you.

But still I feel you - in the wheel.

You are the pilot of my naive ways
Perfectly maneuvering us through
A fog of ignorance and lack of guile
Klaxon like in the authority of you
Piercing the fated crowds of night
Across the simmered sea of doubt.

I trust your calm commands to shore
Away from drift over shallow shale
Above the wrecks of young mistake
For the tide of years is a wise captain
Who has dredged these paths before
And learned - all that you teach now

I see the whole world, in carriage
No. 9, chicken stacked on shunted track
awkwardly aligned by destination
as footfall clunk and rhythm of ride.
Out of my window, stop-motion towns
like snapshot blink and snatch
assembled strobelights in the blur
from greenhill up and down
to grey high rise and logo crown.
But seated linear in the curve of life
I see without look, know without feel
feigning sleep for fear of settled gaze
or locking eyes and furtive glance.
I want to steal words of muted commune
to rustle the headlines of everyday lives
but I’m quietened in thievery of thought
whilst a pinched announcer interrupts.

From aching bone to wisdom come,
all hear this ode of heartened mind.
From bridge of high to soul entwined,
like skipping stones of life aligned,
from stumble creep to giant step,
I sense a journey come to end.
As life reels in and thoughts contend,
to follow more than age descent,
my hours in creation’s land
all plot my path to puzzles solved.
From clay of doubt to tread resolved,
these old roads traveled can still evolve!

Tired in the bones of life,
every breath a sigh released,
the traveller journeys on,
no step, a stride decreased.

Mired in the wet sand,
footfall etched in memory,
only recollection’s path,
marks his lost trajectory.

Waymarks of a shadowed fate,
conspired against an open route,
a weary compass held, required,
to heed his map of doubt.

But though navigation end adjourned,
and passage studied slow,
this noble traveller, remains content
to tread the earth below.