By the Bye

 

 by-the-bye

The sky vibrates. It’s colour’s stretched

on winds that make

space

elastic

 

Tourists fly in capsules

enacting the selfish irony of leisure

that travel somehow

broadens the mind

 

We brag with foreign trophies

that our lives are full

and meaningful. Blind perhaps that we are

the forebears of extinction

 

Those silver fish that glint

high in super-cooled blue air

we glimpse with the gift of gravity

are shards of conscience. Pin pricks in flight

 

Our borrowed time is the inheritance

of us. Our genes. Our simple proclivity

to see only what’s in the frame

To stall in ignorance. The complicity of fate.

the day before..

the-day-before

the day before..

colour seeped and spread

like a bruise. A living statement

Like growth on the dawn

and hurt on the flesh

Such transience

yesterday..

and now the rain comes

teeming with the intent

to drench

every living thing that dares

to bear arms in an open space

today..

an awkward truce of clouds

blown and stretched in huffy air

A paleness in the blue that is morose

stalks unwilling partners in a dance

that must unfold

One Tree

one-tree

wood sweats on the stress

of a knot

curled lines of bark strain

in a semblance of growth

A sign of

the extrusion of life through pain

but this suffering is inarticulate

unless you count

my concern

for visual clues. My heart-beat,

my complicity with wood,

my drowning in a beauty

so shy it would prefer

to stand alone.

Belong to ‘hap’

belong-to-hap

 

a carried corpse

a life-long load

the woe of the muddled mind

half filled with slag

no light, no hope

 

Ah, banish that

Corners can be turned

The moon, elastic orb of lunar swellings

can cast milky light on doubts

We can emerge from grime

Swim out into the juice of hope

 

The ineluctable tremor

of passion

can overwhelm the bleak

and lengthening shadow of despair

The slap and tickle of mirth

revivifying contained, stale air

 

Exhume the hope

from wet leaves smudged beneath

your walking feet

All around the air and scenery frets

for us

to entertain the view.

Leonard Cohen

 

leonard-cohen-a-tribute

 

 

Those gifts were not

from a solemn man

‘ You want it darker’

was a parting salvo

to those of us who loved ,

his words

and will forever be in tune

with a man who mastered melancholy

and exists now beyond the grasp

of anything that could hold him down.

He leaves within me the residue

of a man I never met but feel

I knew

He leaves me lighter

He blessed my soul

So long

You have not gone

Words Count

 

words-count

Those random seeds extrapolate

into a diaspora of vowels

that come together in strands

in a code that longs for coherence

wishing to gather and make sense

by coalescing in a casual thing

a wanton thought, a thought that wants

to be articulate.

Yes.

Words count

The caress of presumptive heirs

borne on precious breath

are not yet premeditated

but innocent until

the string is drawn

and someone makes

sense of it

by interpreting their loss, and so

words count

By assembling a wall of fonts

clues to meaning

and harmony

and eventually we are left

with them echoing a chant

that resonates around the deep walls

of the well from which we draw

the words

that count.