Lost in transit

Lost in transit.pic.poem

 

so many fractions of loss accrete

on the wind-blown traces of a meteor

it’s history

a wide girth of spectral dust

shimmering as isotopes that cling to the life

 of one challenged molecule

looking back at the wide beyond and

spell-bound by the beauty it travelled through,

confused,  resentful that

all those points of light were careless

and let him through

condemned  to shadow play and scraps

when bright lights gleamed on other, chosen, skins

not his,

so the incidents of memory

come back and douse what remains of the view

with that dismal feeling the pilot knows as he cranes

to catch sight of what went on

recurrence

Recurrence. pic for poem.

 

what price all this useless beauty

when dreams recall

the drowning man

in folded blankets

and how the dark recoils

in strangled places

exposing flaws

on naked skin

and whispers shout

with mocking sounds

behind closed doors

in deep, deep wells

so only now

one might feel

euphoria

closing in

Switch

Switch.pic.

 

Soft vows subside on the kerb

 in a gathering of yellows and browns surrendering

as a light wind makes the leaves skittish

 and those with memories,

those most recently released from the bough

and fallen through shafts of sun

 form a duvet that wraps itself

against the cold of a new,

coming season.

 This is yet another turning point

against a casual hand that insists

we go blind to history and forget

that time and tide are cycles

we dare not ignore

lest the light goes out.

27th July. A thursday Sitges. 2017.

Calle Bonnaire

 

Brilliant light.

Sounds coming up to us. These narrow streets

funnel the noise and amplify it somehow, though not aggressively.

Just daily life. Unaffected.

Take it or leave it discourse.

The rubbing along of a more or less polite society

It is music I think. An opera. Small voices confiding.

A mother and daughter. Then the strident tones of a trader.

Rumbling of wheels on the flagstones and sweeping

that sometimes imitates the washing of the sea.

Sea rising in sympathy with troubled air and the moon

and dancing with feathered caps as it races toward the shore

where it rests and tells stories to the incoming waves.

Then they all re-group somehow with an inward suck

and slink back to the great body of water before returning

with fresh stories that only fishermen can attempt to interpret.

Then hasty steps and furtive steps. The drill of some pneumatic tool

and of course the declamatory siren of a car alarm from time to time.

Patrice and I. We in our pools of quiet reflection are content

to sit naked and inconspicuous yet so close to all of the life going on.

We make plans slowly and wonder if we should have another cup of tea.

Appendectomy 5.5.17

Appendectomy.5.5.17 pic

they are apparitions

wand like figures

on a bent horizon

so diffident they can’t explain

released from the holding room

my body transcends it’s organs

and slips beyond responsibility

to that place where darkness is not king

for the fear has been released

so that white bleaches the figures

whose honed titanium blades slit

the fortress of my containing skin

their spoils are mine, to discard

my body relieved these gods disappear

back to a life of their own

and return to me as haunts