Downfall

Downfall. pic

 

yesterday the drive was a dustbowl

throwing up swirls of fine dirt in skittish air

then overnight I woke to the sounds

of wet soldiers feet marching a tattoo

on glass and brick and stamping on the very earth

that had so recently been raised in mutiny

hot light shrieked and tore at the curtains

followed by the portentous roll of the wall of sound

clouds make as they collide, a herald for

the teeming mass of tears unleashed in war

as I lay in dry, warm peace, a double glazed

window pane away from the fray

harboured in sheets that would comfort me

until the dawn could rise and reveal

what happened without and beyond  my complacency

Yes, the soil turned by dervishes will now be tame

and the once arid landscape is now lush

in honour of the gods of the night just gone

so I look out now on a grateful scene with leaves and shoots

roots and greening grass replete

all sated by conflicts the elements dictated

now gone, moved on by angels and their laments

for casualties and needless deaths

forgetful,

 the weather marches on precipitating yet more dreams

If only war were so benign.

Derision

Derision. pic

‘it’s beautiful’,  he said

from the bottom of the wishing well

his eyes, intent, squirming

to find light and  traces of form

for a way out, a clue. A shape revealed.

A helix. An escape. An easy win

like the numbers on a lottery ticket

yet always they seem so distant

so not palpable. Fathoms below and miles above

 they are treasures of the rainbow. Ephemera.

 

And so he went on saying things

clutching at all forms of optimism

knowing that in truth he was going blind

as the bets were lost

All belief, beggared and lost in shallows

the words just backward utterances. Infarcts.

The light going skinny, malnourished to a fade

so grey and white that winter would muscle in

even into this empty spring

from which, when he looked up

he saw death with petals in his eyes

and the earth, a crust at their rims

So many scattered things

Belong to ‘hap’

belong-to-hap

 

a carried corpse

a life-long load

the woe of the muddled mind

half filled with slag

no light, no hope

 

Ah, banish that

Corners can be turned

The moon, elastic orb of lunar swellings

can cast milky light on doubts

We can emerge from grime

Swim out into the juice of hope

 

The ineluctable tremor

of passion

can overwhelm the bleak

and lengthening shadow of despair

The slap and tickle of mirth

revivifying contained, stale air

 

Exhume the hope

from wet leaves smudged beneath

your walking feet

All around the air and scenery frets

for us

to entertain the view.

A cup of tea

A cup of tea

A cup of tea

I salute the deep swells

Of an ocean that rolls

It’s hunger audible. Sucking. Heaving.

The breath, then the rasp of shingle

Dragged across the palate

That moment of calm, when

I imagine the stomach is full

Satiated

Before another lunge below the moon

Announces gravity will not wait

And sailors bob on waves

Duty bound, flung in a dance

A flamenco of spray and romance

And me,

So far in land that this

May or may not be happening

But it matters not

Because it satisfies my minds eye.

Another Caught Thought

Canvey Island 1929

Canvey Island 1929

Another Caught Thought

I am constrained by silence

And the echoes of my past

That bounce and shimmer

Without form. Timid. Irresolute

Bounded round by a clutch

Of anxieties

I stammer. Falter

Giddy in my resonance of ideas

Always looking for a quiet place

The place where I am absorbed

Wholly lost

From whence I can fly

20.8.15

20.8.15

20.8.15

A school report

An old photograph

The origins of my history

Are witnesses

But no final proof

Simply windows to a soul

That shares the fears

And hopes of all the eyes

A quiet moment

Can fill with hope

Or despair

But remember

I am the remnant

Of then

The spark of now

A rider of the casual beast

Conscience

Responsibility

Truth

The weights of life

Would be. Could be

If only I

Were true

To you

Not mine

Not mine

Not mine

A rubble strewn sky

Diaphanous white handkerchiefs

Wind-blown. Shambling

Against the blue of hope and space

That forms a shroud for us

Not just to me

That aching distance

Has always been a dream

And conciousness is gravity

In our high-blown minds

That are anchored here. On the ground

Not just mine

The last thought

Before taking action

May be fatal

May be an inspiration

May be an epiphany

Not just to me