Chorus

 

Vital Signs

A chorus

I wake early on tangled sheets
To hear the clamorous rancour
Of crows darkly calling
‘We are. We are.’
All guttural threat from securely held territory
Their certainty. Their belligerence
Reminding me of war mongers
Politicians on podiums
And electorates too timid
Or too stupid
To complain
How the world order seems fragile to me
It has disturbed my sleep
So I wonder if softer words
Can be sent to march
Cast upon zephyrs
And made to influence
Minds that celebrate harmony
Prone to extract the ‘r’ from friction
And become characters in a global book
To hum and sing
Forget to shout
‘We are. We are’
As a territorial threat
But a hymn
For it could even be
A lullaby

Mum

Mum

Mum.

(26.07.14 at 16:40hrs)

 

A final surge

The last effort of will

Lifts the head, rolls the eyes

Expels the breath

And life has gone

Then all that is left

Is left to settle

And gently lose the heat

That was your signature in life

We are left to grieve

With memories that are stained

By tears that flow at unexpected times

Our emotions,

those selfish survivors,

must be allowed time and space

to grieve in an honest place.

Where our blood still beats

And love carries the thread

We have always known

The umbilical cord

Of self and selflessness

May I salute you

From my timid place

And be worthy of you

Of all that we have.

Sixty something

 

Sixty something 

Syllables, words, accrete like dust

On an empty plate

Not difficult

In this sultry heat

To summon lazy words

And spread them on the page

Let the letters slip

Over local visions

Large ants busy on hot concrete

And my feet, swollen

Past their best

 

These moments stall time

Then melt. Go by in a distortion

Of warmth and languor

Because what is the point

When pointlessness is pleasant

And time freezes in the heat

There is luxury in letting go

I am whole. Absorbed in this thought

Just a mass of blood and bone

My thoughts dwelling in the carapace

I am my mind

Another Mixed Double

Another mixed double

Mixed Doubles

 

I take pictures. It’s what I do. Then they sit with me. A living history. Fragments of time I have consumed, shared and stolen. It is a privilege to have these moments at my command. I don’t wish to waste or abuse them. The element of trust is implicit. I honour these people because they have shared a stage with me. These are fractions, splinters of innocence.

Those Random Fields

Those Random Fields

Those random fields

 

The poppies. Luscious red on stalks

In patches. Risen because memory

And a reservoir of love

Deeply held, compels us to plant

The seeds of future hope

And to mark with a beautiful stain

Acknowledgement of desperate human wrongs

That random beauty

From guerrilla planting

We savages come across

And see a whisper

A visual clue

That one hundred years ago

The moans of men

Are not forgotten in soil

Where red remembers

Passion spent

Where sentries speak

That whispered lament

So. Softly go.