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.

Slide and Seek

austrian-tirol-for-poem

 

A cold line of crooked teeth

against the blue horizon

are capped-white enigma’s

Remainders of a broken jaw

woven into a map

 

Striated flank of mountain range

Game to conquer. Level with?

So, hoisted on cables that strain toward heaven

a wind screeching to howl

amongst the twisted metal, a filigree in rare air

 

We, romantic gods go offering

praise on soft white loins

bared below nominated peaks

then gondolas disgorge swaddled beings

on sticks, to conquer half tamed swathes of mountain side

 

A world inverted, beyond vanity

it’s snow raked by wind and tides of moon

the pliant mountain flesh is strafed by

chromosomes and hieroglyphs

garish

pulsating on selfish whims and adrenalin

 

Until natural forces take her back

and offer up another view.

5.1.16

5.1

A feeble mist hangs subservient

Beneath the blanched winter sky

And under foot grass gamely springs

Through soil that is soaked

Partial it seems to any impression

The indent of feet. Tyre tracks

All casual traffic etched in frosted dew.

Beyond the line of trees

I hear the pullulating rumble

Of a motorway carrying earnest people

On their high missions

All of us oblivious to these vivid truths

The simple things we forget

Because they are casual

The loose change of the everyday

That slips through the lining and seams

Beyond physical constraints

But I am minded to interpret this

As time passing ( as it does)

That half perceived commodity

Before the lights go down.

Shock in Awe

Shock in Awe

Shock in Awe

Shock in Awe

 

He spoke to me of grace

And said it was ‘second-hand’

 

I found that hard to understand

When the words came so easily

 

The air he used he said was spent

Just turned and turned around

 

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.