we are stalled

 

we are stalled. pic for poem

as we look for change

that would not blight the small things

those things that are peripheral

like coins that fail to amount to much and disappoint

as lust does in the youth who is still unacquainted with success

in life and love and patience

so we think of puberty and how that changes us

and so on for the sake of it

the leitmotif, tra la, of life

ever in the swell of a slow rolling sea

captives of change where memories and dreams

are fine dust, the diaspora of Angels cast-offs as we

the unbelievers

run in frozen time away from Pompeii

away from the blindness that just won’t go away

R.I.P.

R.I.P.

 

to all of that

loquacious man

you spent so much

time in air

with stories that sailed

on perfumed winds

close to the edge of reason

and frequently beyond

but the fuel you used

high octane stuff

was poison

so when you sucked

you swallowed tainted fuel

and lit a flare

that could only ever do one thing

gutter, stutter or fizzle out

and you reached all three

now you leave

a crater on the moon

one holed sock

and a legend

that could never be.

Day tripper

 

Day tripper. pic for poem

somewhere else

the sun shines

a person smiles

 

 so today I am drawn

to over there

where they breath different air

 

 because this sky frowns

blank and grey and sobbing

I am being robbed

 

 by a rolling crescendo

of  unruly  water

 that parades noisily on glass

 

 mocking all the barriers

 like stone, metal, or any canopy

that would forbid it

 

but still I long

for sunshine

and warm, wet lips

 

somewhere else

that will harbour me

in moments like this

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.