thank-you

Thank-you. pic for poem

 

sometimes

enlightened witnesses drift by

and save us

from darkness and the weight

of sorrow

which can grip at any soul

that dares to float

beyond the moral compass

and those of us that have been lost in space

salute those guardian angels

who sprinkle us with dust

 

those good people who are

unwitting parents

in times of need

who were ” enlightened witnesses”

live on within us

but you know

so much of this is second-hand

so much spent air in search of truth

and I can’t claim to own it

or know it or be more than

receptive to whispers

A rising

A rising. Pic for poem

 

mist rising like silk

disturbed by a murmur

over cold water laid flat

by silence

before morning shakes it all

and voices breathe warmth

on words that float away

in the chill stillness that waits

to evaporate like a departing soul

with memories that whisper sweet nothings

to milky shadows and ghosts;

a coot calls and cuts the air

a heron struts impatient for the curtain to lift

and one more day is vague before

the mist unfurls

And in the morning

Bell weather

 

I sit playing at words and looking

for their ruined meanings as

above me rain detaches itself from the moods

that are clouds that linger in doom

and laugh as they get lighter and pull away

to a heaven that smiles on the other side of the world

while upside down other people find congress

in immaculate thoughts,  just like mine

though it all, of course, is unknowable

and that susurration  of damp pellets on glass,

that rain, is somehow soothing as it washes away

the stain of grief – the echo

that seems to last, to follow and linger

like a partner in a sensual dance

guiding me with soft fingers into vice

 

Tomorrow will try to intrude

and entertain my future with presentiments but

I am caught here in the cloying sense of a loss that is impending

the gravity of doubt that knows me, owns me

so well that I have adopted it and beg to drown

in this timely shower of raindrops surrendering on glass

the drum beat and patter of those renegade soldiers

dividing me from fate as they slip away in disarray

beseeching the spent remorseless air to mourn

other fallen dreams set fast in the earth with encryptions

on stone tablets that are stoic with their enduring love

the epitaphs that outlive sorrow day after day

and all the letters bleed from their wounds, their histories

the kindness of flowers left at the scene

and in the morning

the eye’s have it

An eyefull

 

a wet monday in Worthing when

drab describes it all – like a squall

the pavement leaden but moist

with a sheen that mourns this day

 

the silk trace of rain resembling a worn mirror

reluctant to record the scene

so I kill time as I wait for my car

to be serviced in a franchise on the edge of town

 

here, I am a tourist on the fringe

of this island I am bound to call my home

the sea, a shifting slate graunching at the shingle

of a beach demarcated by groynes

 

that limp out into temperamental water

barnacles and slime worn into their weathered timber –

they are the nerve endings on the fringe

constantly mocked by tides that respond only to

 

higher pulses that have no remorse for

that hang-dog,  beaten look they leave behind

for tourists and thrill seekers, the off-peak

and the lost and lonely on the beach

 

and in all of this I try to find a common thread

imagining workers behind glass and steel

bricked-up and buoyed by duty and the hours

that pay a mortgage – that make it all seem safe

 

I feel small amongst the flotsam of people with

less pressing concerns as they shuffle

on quiet streets that promise things

like Prospect Place or maybe even Paradise ( a square)?

 

in shops Closing Down with only ‘days to go’

I feel the loss of blood, a dilute imperative

the eking out of time as the air goes out

of a blessing that was once filled with hope

I am the news

I am the news. pic for poem

 

I am a sculpture

waiting upon reason, mercy and miracles

to mould me and make sense of each

passing moment that renders me as small

 

I am an echo

of nothing more than memories that slink

in the undergrowth of  my own propaganda

and threaten my neck with a sensual constriction

 

As spirits go

I am evaporating on the back of so many

disappointments

that a ghost would wail at the iniquity

of living in this entanglement

 

but I am immune

as a rogue infection to clinical intervention –

a bacteria so fit that healthy cells

emigrate to other hosts and leave me isolated

in my own member state

 

I am dilute

as my age dictates

that blood relatives die around me

and I take the calls of surviving kin

and enter in to their ‘arrangements’

 

I am the understudy

for my impending future, the heir apparent

to a ‘long wait’ that others may remark

was lived in haste and might in time improve

goodbye Michael

goodbye Michael. pic

 

her voice stretched by emptiness

she simply said;

” I thought you should know Michael passed away today”

he chose a Sunday to go into permanence

and leave his wife and family on the day of rest

today marks the Autumn Equinox, two equal halves of light and shade

one teardrop hangs and waits for gravity to be the judge

our parliament  in tatters, the country in turmoil

and as we read the news

one can’t help but feel that though his mind was in decline

he chose his moment well.

Start me up

Start me up. pic

 

 at first light untrammelled by fear

the first thought, that fragile thing

is wary in the unfolding moments

before the day expands

into a precious arc like a fisherman’s net,

cast wide;

and it should always be an optimistic sweep

of eyes not yet occluded by doubt

limbs not yet bothered by gravity

and a heart willing to pump

fresh energy to gather-up

the mornings catch