Park life

The truffle season begins..

 

 

a flare of green in the distance

from a high-viz jacket across the park

the smell of cattle, somehow sweet, carried like a vesper on

the air

and on the path a mushroom sprouts amongst the fallen leaves

all of these are clues to change

now that summer must relinquish its warmth

to the broad shoulders of another season

and we, the passengers, would do well

to witness the changing mood and prepare

for the light to cede it’s power, those lumens,

on shortening days when the sun’s grace is

merely a blown kiss and an ache that lingers

in sweet nothings

I take it in and hope to capture

some of it, some essence, to carry forward to the next time

and the next time

forever greedy for this gift of knowing

that I am small

Crow

Crow. Pic for poem

 

oblivious black. a rag on a branch

and nonchalant at height

he knows the fall won’t kill him

for his wings will intervene and flap at the air

and make the lightness of being a natural thing

such ignorance, as I impute

is actually magnificent

implacable. mute. absorbed

it is only me who is troubled

so what if he wears black

My wife

My wife. pic for poem

 

she lies naked on the bedroom floor

doing  yoga poses, utterly exposed

these are the moments I like best

one leg drawn into the waist

a scissor of flesh in soft light

the darker shape of body hair obscured

an ineluctable triangle of mute desire

and we talk and share this shared space

this one, of many, moments that accrue

to form a comfortable bond. a union of trust

then I will go and do something quite mundane, like

clean my teeth or make a cup of tea

as she unfurls in blind nakedness to stretch

into another pose that readies her for the day

that we go toward, together, as innocents

Theatre

Casa Batillo, Barcelona

 

a silhouette misty cut

in darkness out of light

on a shelf is night

 

from the flat body

with holding dreams

eyes see

 

and no star

is a vision

but the diamond black

 

where pinkness

pervades my window panes

making chilly contours

 

how the evening red

reminds

night can hold fire

Seconds out..

Seconds out.. pic for poem

 

 

there is a melting sadness in this process

of time slipping away, unberthing me

and slowly, inexorably, bleeding me of life

by small instants, lost moments and carelessness

 

no matter how diligent I am to stem the flow

the seconds count against me and the ring-man with his towel

and imprecations

are lost in the cries of a crowd that bays for yet more blood

 

deaf, dumb and blind to my predicament

their spittle and urgent desire require a sacrifice

to transcend the moment, dispel the ordinary

and suffer only gods to weep

 

and perhaps I glimpse the beauty in this savagery

of defeat

that this moment holds all of me

every damned thing, mine, to give away in this circle of

diminishing light

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