Listening for rain

 

Listening to rain.pic for poem

 

nobody asks that I should write

so I go blind to words, those seedlings

in a field of dreams gone fallow

and my fingers get lazy

as they atrophy around the tools

that let my soul identify pain

 

 this sloth hangs heavy on its threads

raggedly denying the cold

but without a sense of cause

as everything within becomes forlorn

and travel, that feeling of impetus,  is second-class

slow and likely to be misplaced

 

softly drips spill against the glass

like diffident soldiers in a phoney war

knock knocking and asking for a doctor, who

will listen to my complaints

and earnestly look into my eyes and say

next please.

as such, perhaps, maybe

as such,perhaps,maybe pic for poem

 

invite me in

to your parade of words

let them shine and settle as motes

fairies in a time of gloom

on surfaces that shudder to the touch

let me not go blind to them

though they may be false prophets

let me indulge them

though sloth hangs heavy on it’s threads

 my fingers are lazy

as repentant soldiers that limp slowly

imparting  messages from brain to drain, HQ to sump

and dump everything around the curvature

of the earth

raggedly denying  the cold

that fringe of utterly knowing

and not knowing

the blessed rim, the circumference

of hope

Many happy returns

Watch face.jpg

 

last night a shower of beer rained down

over Bristol, London, Birmingham and far beyond

or at least that’s what I saw on the news

and out-performed any rainfall we have had for months

in a raucous tumult of emotion that echoed

the Roar of 66′

this morning, gingerly

blue skies are the blessing that meets

 those bleary eyes and broken hearts

that dared to dream and over-step the mark but

the grass will celebrate in the sweet ooze that was thrown away

and rise again

 so come home

young men and rub shoulders amongst your kith and kin

and know that we have shared your time abroad

been brought to our knees with you

so close, as ever, to that fervent wish.

Not if nor when nor never then…

 

Not if nor when nor never then... pic

nourished by the sounds they make

I go on

blindly, more in hope than

 with any resolution that could give me strength

 for they seem to rise and fall

with reason

whatever that tidal condition is

and I puff and pant

metaphorically

on the diaphragm of this worlds’

bleeding conscience

never sure whether I have

enough words

to fill the space vacated

by reason

whose box of tricks and verbal tics

confuse me, refuse me

make waste where there was scant

room for loss

and though I am mostly moribund

I have such faith in beauty

like the perennially scorned lover

who draws the line at suicide

I continue to weave in the traffic

of words

trailing in their vapour, their scent

in thrall to an elusive sense

of reason.

bye bye man

bye bye man

under a black felt brim

eyes dark with a candour

that have seen all manner of things

wonder whether they should plead

for clemency or a piece of that notion

that compassion will cure all ills

for in that stare so many fires

have withered on coals

raked over and left cooling till

soft grey ash is swept up on murmurs of

casual air

those whispered endearments

and promises that sustain a heart

that wishes to pump more

than just blood

around the ache of desire

He knows in there

there is no room for mercy

for justice will be implacable

His day is up

and so

under that felt overhang

he has already gone

Damn

damn

I see my grey hair in pictures with the family

and realise that I am already passing

into history

How long will it be until the smile fades to ash

and colours in the inks lose their vitality

Can that frame hold fast and keep the memory

or will indifference and fashion

make it hasten into a lost obscurity

Will it all by-pass photo-shop

with it’s technical brilliance,

the mastered pixel rendered and held

for heaven to view in the cloud

Perhaps I am destined to inhabit

the space that the picture frame

purports to keep in an enigmatic perpetuity.