About mikedohsays

Photographer. Writer. Poet. Human Being.

thank-you

Thank-you. pic for poem

 

sometimes

enlightened witnesses drift by

and save us

from darkness and the weight

of sorrow

which can grip at any soul

that dares to float

beyond the moral compass

and those of us that have been lost in space

salute those guardian angels

who sprinkle us with dust

 

those good people who are

unwitting parents

in times of need

who were ” enlightened witnesses”

live on within us

but you know

so much of this is second-hand

so much spent air in search of truth

and I can’t claim to own it

or know it or be more than

receptive to whispers

A rising

A rising. Pic for poem

 

mist rising like silk

disturbed by a murmur

over cold water laid flat

by silence

before morning shakes it all

and voices breathe warmth

on words that float away

in the chill stillness that waits

to evaporate like a departing soul

with memories that whisper sweet nothings

to milky shadows and ghosts;

a coot calls and cuts the air

a heron struts impatient for the curtain to lift

and one more day is vague before

the mist unfurls

Henry’s nose

 

His owner dotes on him

a Beagle with a ‘nose’

for the finer things

that will take him

single-mindedly away from her

infuriatingly, away from her

when he puts the nuzzle to the puzzle

and, well, not quite sprints away

but in the way of connoisseurs the world over

focused and rather determined, as if,

summoned to a higher calling

sort of way

he goes off and does what Henry does

which misses for the most part

what his lady owner would like

as she generously takes time out

to indulge

Henry’s nose

in her otherwise quite busy day.

Fay de Way

Fay de Way. pic for poem

 

she sat amid

the hot, fast breath

of escaping beauty

adoring her own brazen image

in lights and a mirror

that would soon forget her

 

the punters in their prowl of seats

alert to form and hungry in

the animal kingdom

just out of sight of the bait

shortly to be released into

a wilderness of unspent desire

 

then on to another gig

a pole, a stage and hungry eyes

leering at the inflation of flesh

in the loan to value contract exacted

as they gather in the cash

for moonlight and velvet

 

the hunters swoon

and track back to the bar

order in another libation

for another excuse to loosen

the conventions that exist

in that particular safari park

I ask you

I ask you. pic for poem

 

words stall

splutter, sprawl

like puppy dogs

and things that crawl

 

go lightly

go dark

tinker with guilt

go for walks in the park

 

I have a drawer

stuffed full of them

a wriggling shower

all prone to mayhem

 

and can I tame them?

hell NO

they are gone. Pro Tem

Hello. I call. Hello

 

I sometimes ask for the menu

the weegee board of reason

in order to get a view

and they answer with treason

 

vexatious as ever

characters designed to play

bit parts that deliver

things I should not say

And in the morning

Bell weather

 

I sit playing at words and looking

for their ruined meanings as

above me rain detaches itself from the moods

that are clouds that linger in doom

and laugh as they get lighter and pull away

to a heaven that smiles on the other side of the world

while upside down other people find congress

in immaculate thoughts,  just like mine

though it all, of course, is unknowable

and that susurration  of damp pellets on glass,

that rain, is somehow soothing as it washes away

the stain of grief – the echo

that seems to last, to follow and linger

like a partner in a sensual dance

guiding me with soft fingers into vice

 

Tomorrow will try to intrude

and entertain my future with presentiments but

I am caught here in the cloying sense of a loss that is impending

the gravity of doubt that knows me, owns me

so well that I have adopted it and beg to drown

in this timely shower of raindrops surrendering on glass

the drum beat and patter of those renegade soldiers

dividing me from fate as they slip away in disarray

beseeching the spent remorseless air to mourn

other fallen dreams set fast in the earth with encryptions

on stone tablets that are stoic with their enduring love

the epitaphs that outlive sorrow day after day

and all the letters bleed from their wounds, their histories

the kindness of flowers left at the scene

and in the morning

Offerings

Offerings

 

I know a little, not a lot

but I can lay words at your feet

and hope that you will let them in

nourish them and give them shape

in those long strides we take

in hope, in friendship and shared trust

so that in the fullness of time

we too may become united

in the soft transfer of a love that speaks

so quietly that if we travel in haste

we may damage it in the slipstream of self interest –

that selfish gene that threatens to deny

all the gifts we care to give