My thoughts are turning
My face turning
At what I feel is coming
An avalanche from the future
And I shall look at it
With the fear that we all must possess
That deep embedded reflex
Of flight or fright
I am carrion.
The imminence of death as it lurks
Casually assessing its contenders
Is a spectre on the horizon
That eclipses hope and makes the moonlight vague
Is this a premonition?
Am I in the cross-hairs of His cold sight?
Or should I simply surrender to some greater design
because He can raise the stakes with His precocious wit
and out-bid my superstitious posturing at any moment
and bring down a curse upon my vanity
I am carrion.
We pull back on the strings
for comfort and to create
and re-create a sense of awe.
We praise the past with our lips
and words that search
for melody in the echoes
that souls leave on beaches and in fields.
Old bones fettered by gravity,
weeping with impatience
muddle in and out of grace.
Until nothing is left
beyond peace and praise.
The memory embellished
and ready to be passed on.
he cut my chord with barren words
that echo even now when I
in my sixth decade find spite hidden
that wake me in the night
and know that my stump
that bit of me we call the soul
is grieving still and asking
plaintive questions knowing that
darkness will over-take every one
of my days
and lay waste to
the child who is still-born
So I carry my own foetus unwillingly
in search of life
though in it’s sac, nightly,
I wake flinching at wounds
it’s memory holds intact
forever unleashing the last word
with a prick
to burst the tight skin
of my pride
and damning with loveless eyes.
My 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
so I can languish in the arrested zone
and take stock
by 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,
the mild and bitters,
I am a novice.
Ready to go lightly and laugh
at the tolling of last orders.
Ladies and Gentlemen. Time Please.
I am the morsel
A chatter box, blah blah
I’ll have a laugh
Forget the past
Those days that are now in ruins
And tears still run
Still come to visit
At times that are not appropriate
They are just calling cards
Markers of doused flames
And now the mist lays down
When birdsong punctuates
Silence and blank thoughts
Which are pre-cursors
To another day in flight