bye bye man

bye bye man

under a black felt brim

eyes dark with a candour

that have seen all manner of things

wonder whether they should plead

for clemency or a piece of that notion

that compassion will cure all ills

for in that stare so many fires

have withered on coals

raked over and left cooling till

soft grey ash is swept up on murmurs of

casual air

those whispered endearments

and promises that sustain a heart

that wishes to pump more

than just blood

around the ache of desire

He knows in there

there is no room for mercy

for justice will be implacable

His day is up

and so

under that felt overhang

he has already gone

Scraps

Scraps. Poem photograph

They never fall

those spots of reason

on flesh drawn tight, in retreat

hauled about and withered

by fears stacked up

and winking at, no other way

because there was

no other way

not then.

But now a rush of rust on metal

those screech marks of decay

like time, bold on the eaten substance

would render beauty to a mind

so bidden

But,

lassitude allows mould

to fret and gather over

those dull accomplishments

and the question of;

what is this ache?

inherits the colour blue

that famous state

folk hero hue

that is a piece of mind gone flaky

an intimate knowledge

belonging to more than just the few.

Scraps.

it is always scraps

that in the end

are left

in view.

Writers pique

Writers pique. Photograph.jpg

 

Rejection

and now I am eager to explore

The new. The re-invented.

For that seems to be the future

of where the prizes are.

The fashion now, and it is only NOW

has wrong-footed me.

My words undone, untied or ridiculed

for being out of date.

And so I reverberate

catch-up and perform somersaults

in order to be admired.

How tiring.

A vain pursuit. Smudged face

in a remorseless mirror.

Grow up you fool

don’t remonstrate.

The others have the accolades.

I have the Angel’s share.

Dead Zone

Dead Zone.jpg

Old bones in the morning ache

like cogs and wheels accumulating

rust from a cloying atmosphere

Decrepitude. It mocks

But I sense in this calling of time

a humour that goes with the warning

I can languish in the arrested zone

and take stock

starring in some delicious dreams

so real that heaven has surely come

and wrapped me in a welcome blanket

So here, between the light and dark

I am a novice

ready to go lightly and laugh

at the tolling of last orders.

Ladies and Gentlemen. Please.

Shadows

Shadows. Poem.jpg

Move into the space

of now

Not forward nor back

Just be

surrounded as it should be

reduced by the heat

of this thought

to an essence

of that being that knows

all about shapes

My own competing for bliss

in lines sculpted by the sun

and given an approximate shape

against complicit surfaces

Rumours almost of what is here

in this tenuous moment

when I am gathered in the shallows

waiting for the rumours to end.