M

Memory for Shelagh

 

after he had gone she lost

gradually

the letters from her name until

the M that launched her as a daughter

was left alone

stranded in the space that F

had shared, enjoined with her

 

Then she slipped away

clinging to that sense of loss

and enters now the land of shadows

and hints

that we can’t change

and so we reminisce

counting clocks and changing faces

 

the links of a family alerted

by her leaving

draw more tightly on the letters

in their own names

like pearls or beads that hold us fast

together in a daisy chain

of sadness and hope

Breaks it

Breaks it. pic

 

this howling wind makes the sound of denial

edging and barging at the sides

of everything that has

the temerity

to even co-exist

it is like a beast contained but

I enjoy it’s song

always changing shape

escaping, seeking

breathless in its own anomaly

                                                of sound

I can imagine frontiers re-arranged

whole empires usurped

before the political elites are made aware

and how fun that would be

as the wind lifts off their suits and

shames them

their stolen respectability strewn

across frontiers and fences

undergarments on overhead lines

storm Georgina I would bow to thee

Not if nor when nor never then…

 

Not if nor when nor never then... pic

nourished by the sounds they make

I go on

blindly, more in hope than

 with any resolution that could give me strength

 for they seem to rise and fall

with reason

whatever that tidal condition is

and I puff and pant

metaphorically

on the diaphragm of this worlds’

bleeding conscience

never sure whether I have

enough words

to fill the space vacated

by reason

whose box of tricks and verbal tics

confuse me, refuse me

make waste where there was scant

room for loss

and though I am mostly moribund

I have such faith in beauty

like the perennially scorned lover

who draws the line at suicide

I continue to weave in the traffic

of words

trailing in their vapour, their scent

in thrall to an elusive sense

of reason.

Storm

Storm. pic

 

 

The light is wicked

lascivious in its portents of fear

laying waste to familiar sights

it mocks

as we retreat

a blitzkrieg emerging rudely

from some previous complacency

 

All along the coast

a frustrated tsunami  rehearses

with a roiling fist the desecration

it would unleash

if everything were to come together

in a fusion that mankind  would recognize

as an answer to sleights.

Christopher

Christopher. Pic for poem

 

Shout. Scream

deny all knowledge of that dream

The distance yawns

and fills the void

with stale air and residues

of harm

that neglect will come to know

as regret

that cloying self-pity that hangs

on the rags of remorse

and renders even love

to shrug

and wonder why

 

My boy who is now a man

has drifted in that domain

and knows so little of me

save that I sired him

and hurt his mother cruelly

He finds forgiveness hard

Those blank years went down

in flames and hate

so only silence and darkness

could void the pain

but now I sense the permafrost

might thaw

and I may be allowed

to make some recompense

small reparations to the ship of love

in this slow cycle of drawing out

the heat from that scream

and venom from the shout

 

May soft lips form

around the eternity of air

 that sucks and strains to find

the letters that hide in space

and just might spell

an end to longing