Simmering

Simmering

 

a white rag rides on the wind

flip flopping on the urgent breath

that rasps against roofs and eaves

as it complains against closed spaces

 

beneath all this I sit and stew

a quiet thing, compressed

alone in the vessel of my separateness

acquiring a taste for solitude

 

and gaze with growing detachment

at the scrap of white as it waves

with a careless detachment outside

receding into an unknowable distance

South Milton Beach

South Milton Beach. pic

 

the water

on course to spill

drives head-long seaward

following yearnings of the moon

on vectors that cannot be ignored

rolling stones and pebbles in a forensic rush

to clean, to erase all traces

of where they have been

so each mystery is pristine

lost in spray – the wind

gives them alibis

and they go, all of them

like turtles to the maw

of the open sea

that pretends to be    gentle

though it has the power over night and day

and I walk amongst the day trippers

tourists on familiar soil yet eager

to be away

from home

Anthems

Anthems. pic

 

I should go without to be with you

dear friend

a blankness in disposable light behind

that curtain of my senses, my

ever ready ego

to enter into still, and find

calm

without ever resorting to fanfares

to strident renditions of blood pumped air

that are coarse and stained by the victims

their residue of wailing from mothers whose wombs

have been torn. their love disinterred

No, not for me a fanfare

no grand show and no jostling of elbows

no jingoism

just the hum of the commonplace. the listening

for quiet spaces and shadows

where love lurks without intentions