Pale offering

pale-offering-pic-for-poem

The words themselves have wings

but my intentions spill

poor versions of the best of them

for I am prone to ill thought through

enthusiasms,

whence spent have gone off half-cock

and I am left with the litter

scrunched balls of rejection

on the floor and in the bin,

lost but nascent masterpieces

simpering in the blushing shade

of my ragged ego

I am reduced

a two bit Ealing cinematic hero

wailing of the woe it is for me

for they can see my infamy

This wincing, wrinkled pain

is angst

I am ruined. A prune

in a basket of grapes

hook, line and thinker………..

hook-line-and-thinker-image-for-poem

A fish landed

out of sorts

and complained bitterly

for the lack of salt

and went on to deride the fisherman

for his clumsy boots

the cracked and melting ice

all the noise on the harbour side,

“for goodness sake, couldn’t you just reel me in?

Have some sport? Instead you come

riding the waves and suck me in

to a harvest of woe

and this indignity. To die

in plain sight in front of a man in white

who puts a price on me

and then, cold eyed, moves on

to appraise the rest of us.

If I could I would put a curse on you”

Later, over sweet tea the fisherman

quite satisfied, said to his wife

“it was a fine catch today”

Never did

never-did

I never had authority, a uniform

so now, as age advances

and men in suits strut and utter

incoherent commands

I am more, not less confused

Their balance sheets and due diligence

find me straggling in a long column

of easily forgotten figures

wrapped in the inconvenient flag of conscience

But in that too there lacks an impetus

that will to fight has gone

and with it any hope

for the spoils of victory

The swagger of the coming man has gone

like a moon shadow

that softest of forms recedes

ambiguous in departure

from the territories of man and boy

going quietly to a greater dark

Deep Space

poem-deep-space

on into endless blue

 into the cold configuration of misery

he explores the scope of space

not daring to imagine there are sides

or anything, that may signify limits

for there are none

when the black dog licks his wounds

and basks in the enduring certainty of despair

The dreamer blinks

all dreams dashed before

he reaches the farther shore

stuck between rocks

in a paradox

that hardest of places

from whence he stares

and goes blind again, in hope

There is a fool on the coast

who whistles and coos

endangering the silence

and distracting the fractions of light

that emit so faintly from far, far away

but lay like silver threads

tendrils that pulse with forgotten time

and offer the kindness of an enduring hope

Slide and Seek

austrian-tirol-for-poem

 

A cold line of crooked teeth

against the blue horizon

are capped-white enigma’s

Remainders of a broken jaw

woven into a map

 

Striated flank of mountain range

Game to conquer. Level with?

So, hoisted on cables that strain toward heaven

a wind screeching to howl

amongst the twisted metal, a filigree in rare air

 

We, romantic gods go offering

praise on soft white loins

bared below nominated peaks

then gondolas disgorge swaddled beings

on sticks, to conquer half tamed swathes of mountain side

 

A world inverted, beyond vanity

it’s snow raked by wind and tides of moon

the pliant mountain flesh is strafed by

chromosomes and hieroglyphs

garish

pulsating on selfish whims and adrenalin

 

Until natural forces take her back

and offer up another view.