Castaway

Castaway

I am sat

stark naked on a sunday morning

reviewing the dark past,

and stewing

with those tangled, escaping memories

over my part in all of that.

And on a blank sheet of paper,

white, beside me, waiting, innocent,

a pubic hair.

Insouciant. Detached from me

lazing absently

Laughing at incongruity.

Dream On

dream-on

Would that we

could linger in romance

our lovers words coating the air

with a fragrance of intimations

so personal they self immolate

and standing back

 wallow in their dust.

But on reflection I find

a sadness in the hearth

when I rake at the ash

and know the ache

of what was lost in flames

hoping with all my heart

that our souls

have not come apart

in this keening for closeness

we knew once as love

Alpha Bet

 

A sign of passing time 

I scrabble for words

To mark significance

Because this day is a gun

That starts one whole New Year

 

Take aim and breathe

Seek the rhythm

That comes with age

Blood pulsating in the sleeve of me

 

Amazed still that newness counts

Out-shining the past

Which comfort and fear

Would like to arrest

 

Step forward and go

Beyond this

And tease out the letters

That form my DNA

About Face

About Face

About Face

Love torn from a healthy limb

The lover with the loss mourns

Everywhere is stained

Where pain seeps and shrieks

There is an infection of loss

So corrosive it pervades all known limits

To outpace normal life

The witnesses and family

Are caught in a tsunami,

of uncooked grief

Tendrils of revenge

And the clamour of self-pity

But when all is said and done

It is just the opposite of a smile.

Hidden Truths

Hidden Truths

 

Hidden Truths

Talk to me please

For I am troubled

By dreams that refuse

To sleep in quietness

Appearing only to confuse

And leave simpers in the margins

Of wakeful thoughts

To register on the scale

Of my conscience

Half drawn

The ineluctable stain

Of stretched flesh

As scraps and fragments

On a canvas

That reeks of errors

Remorse and half-told truths

Extruded from a private place

 Seeps into the world of eyes

Mike

Tales

Tales

 

If I were handed ‘the’ book

Inscribed with the letters of my name

It would be a raggedy thing

With torn and missing pages

In parts, a mystery to me

More lament than history

Where glowing deeds are reduced

To blown ashes and curled corners

Of half remembered things

But I am learning

To fear not, or if, not, less

Because the actual day I inhabit

Contains the truth

So I make history stall

In order to build

Day by day

A fitting legacy

That even I would recognize

Gifts

Gifts

Gifts

 

I live in beauty

I must

For squalid does for me

Closes me down and draws,

the curtains

on the envelope that is outside

 

I look for an essence of the infinite

In a caught moment

Then trap it in words

And celebrate

Because it all will pass by

In a lazy caravan of sighs

 

And so I sit

A recipient of bliss

Quiet with my gift

Not at all guilty

For I would share this

With anyone.