Avoidance

Avoidance. Pic for poem

 

The dogs and their owners

smudges on this horizon are

just beyond the range of a call,

an imprecation to obey or

small-talk, that tittle-tattle

of the lonely

as the air they share in a conspiracy

of mounting grief

is just contained in pleasantries

 

I bear left and implore my dog

to follow suit

lest I am drawn-in to the oblivion

of chatter

for we are all, just, recognizable ciphers

in this space

So I duck between hedges that gape

with tired acceptance of this constant intrusion ( escape)

into another field and the welcome glare

 

of solitude

Two worlds separated by nothing much

A resentment perhaps. An irritation on the surface

of another, deeper disquiet

but that still and graven distance is like

the comfort of death

when knowing it all means

nothing at all

 

Web

 

Web. A pic

A silver line slinks down in a curve

from the side of the house

swaying in the meagre air

and settles on pink flower heads

that are wan against the misty backdrop

A grey shroud blanches

the turning colours of autumn

Then, as I watch, the filament collapses

as it detaches from the wall

Now I see the plant and flower heads it has set free

Tall and proud and smothered in a web of silver threads

that criss-cross the stems

enclosing misty space, inviting flight. Anticipating food.

This outdoor larder is conspicuous to me as the day begins

It is so easy to forget that I am a witness, however fleeting,

of another life. Another set of dreams.

If I am still. If I become a fraction.

I may enter in.

Shock in Awe

Writers pique. Photograph

 

He spoke to me of grace

and said it was ‘second hand’

 

I found that hard to understand

when words came so easily

 

The air he used he said ‘was spent’

just turned and turned around

 

 like a soft breeze

that could threaten storms

 

and there I was, as if

in the presence of a prophet

 

Spell-bound in admiration

for a weaver of thoughts

 

but he just smiled and said’

‘It’s a wonderful thing’

 

and left me flailing

in an alphabet. Like a dope.

Carrion

Carrion. Pic for poem

 

My thoughts are turning

My face turning

At what I feel is coming

An avalanche from the future

Brooding

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.

Relay

Relay. Poem pic.

 

We pull back on the strings

of history

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,

the sacraments,

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.

Though sparks may fly.

Though sparks may fly. pic

 

he cut my chord with barren words

that echo even now when I

in my sixth decade find spite hidden

in memories

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

within me.

 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.

At the bar

 

 

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.