Echo

Echo. Photograph

Echo

that midnight spell

when we capered in moonlight

felled trees with shafts of cold precision

and waited for the morning dew

to lay diamonds on the day

though nothing was sordid

not like an inhabited day

which rains through grimy overlays

but now, in silence

the dark and smothered perspective

is waiting for sound

to give distance away

Ridiculous

Ridiculous

 

I call my dog ‘Ridiculous’

which is of course a tad unfair

but as the boss

I uphold my right to interfere

in everything we come across

especially when I shout ‘come here’

and the blasted dog doesn’t give a toss

then someone remarks she has lovely hair

expecting me to agree and doff,

my cap

which I rarely do when the weather is fair

though I do if it’s raining cats and dogs

or to fend off an angry Terrier

but just to underline the point. She is ridiculous.

I am the Boss no matter what gets into her.

Bloody dog looks incredulous.

Come here!!!

These Rooms

These room. photograph

breathe honesty through pain

assemble despite craving

and are drawn to communicate

with a fierce resolve

that bares it’s face

to sinews and contours laid bare

in past shame. self pity. arrogance.

shyness hides deception

in that mask which enables carnage

and yet each day

new recruits file in

and face cracked mirrors

in humble places

that ask only for truth

and bear witness, sometimes

to a craving

for redemption

for love and peace

that lies bleeding and torn

in memories that stink.

These rooms offer

an unassuming refuge

for bodies and minds

that are willing.

How sad

How sad. pic

How sad

the ego clings to the fringes

of what is left

remembering in the pallid glow of reality

that the past was a better place

invested with the best of memories

still electric, still with the power to pull

old bones with their cloak of decaying cells

onto the back of an old motor bike

and ride, demented, without a helmet

into the wall of some past glories

How sad

that the epitaph may be spoiled

if the truth came out

that vanity was the ultimate fuel

and not a single prayer for peace

that split skin and blood

were attended to in the urgent blue

of flashing lights

and trained hands transferred the body

to a bed in a place that was

not home

How sad.

Castaway

Castaway

I am sat

stark naked on a sunday morning

reviewing the dark past,

and stewing

with those tangled, escaping memories

over my part in all of that.

And on a blank sheet of paper,

white, beside me, waiting, innocent,

a pubic hair.

Insouciant. Detached from me

lazing absently

Laughing at incongruity.

Unrest

Unrest. A poem

those waking dreams like scum, no

like napalm

 come, stripping me from sleep

I wonder if it is some kind (wrong word) of retribution

for past behaviours

or those that are still within.

The nomenclature of faith

that wrestles, by proxy, inside me

ill advised and ill informed

and thus

 powerful in a morbid way.

The furies in cloisters collude

to pull the sheets sharply across my eyes

and let livid colours settle

on daylight

like toxic chemicals in a sneer

ready to swirl and coalesce

in a dazzle on the surface

confirming all the worst weather reports

unsettling me here, on the shore

where I most want to be

still and calm.