To simper

To simper. pic

 

i change my clothes and summon my shoes

to lead me away into another view

all change except that nothing does

the pavement cracked, still, a million miles away

still oppresses and haunts

cool water blending on golden sand

refuses to lower the mercury on

this scale of pain

so i come back to the soiled outer-wear

and stew

for i can see in the imminence of the view

truth with its implacable head

is resolute

and i must bend, take another route

but stay stock still, naked in this pool

my very own

casserole

Downfall

Downfall. pic

 

yesterday the drive was a dustbowl

throwing up swirls of fine dirt in skittish air

then overnight I woke to the sounds

of wet soldiers feet marching a tattoo

on glass and brick and stamping on the very earth

that had so recently been raised in mutiny

hot light shrieked and tore at the curtains

followed by the portentous roll of the wall of sound

clouds make as they collide, a herald for

the teeming mass of tears unleashed in war

as I lay in dry, warm peace, a double glazed

window pane away from the fray

harboured in sheets that would comfort me

until the dawn could rise and reveal

what happened without and beyond  my complacency

Yes, the soil turned by dervishes will now be tame

and the once arid landscape is now lush

in honour of the gods of the night just gone

so I look out now on a grateful scene with leaves and shoots

roots and greening grass replete

all sated by conflicts the elements dictated

now gone, moved on by angels and their laments

for casualties and needless deaths

forgetful,

 the weather marches on precipitating yet more dreams

If only war were so benign.

Encore

Encore.pic for poem

 

vanity will be the death of me

with its urbane tendrils clinging

like entropy to everything

I ever held dear

elevating innuendo to precise sneers

for I am stunned

by my own false perceptions

living now in fear of the inevitable

the drool, the smell of piss

 my very own creeping desuetude

and the irony of fake pride

that will lick at my withering sides

in the calm and measured preparation

awaiting us all in the queue

for the final curtain

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

Recurrence

Recurrence. A picture

 

Across the space night occupied

no trace

but the nuisance of being left

with thoughts

that larceny was involved

cloaked by that surreptitious darkness

able so often to strip the shelves

of my emporium

of everything I lovingly wrapped

and offered for sale

in new light, for other, more innocent

eyes

My own, in sleep

complacent and blind are lazy

before dawn admits the hawkers

and opportunists

who daily put me down

Crows feet

Crows feet

 

a bird lays a line against

the blue or grey circumference of doubt

for the sky, it’s sheets draw inexorably

toward the night

and that absence of light

that pulls a curtain on the day

Deep space will offer it’s dome

to those of us who oblige the moon

obeying rituals and cycles

we have come to know

amid those rumours of your day

that heaven steers toward the pillow

The waking dreams will flap

 like washing on a line

hoping to succumb

 to tenderness

in the still and calm of sleep

In that orbit of the resting eye

the universe is brave, unbounded

by superstition

until the day intrudes again

to support some foolish notion of flight.

Carrion

Carrion. Pic for poem

 

My thoughts are turning

My face turning

At what I feel is coming

An avalanche from the future

Brooding

And I shall look at it

With the fear that we all must possess

That deep embedded reflex

Of flight or fright

I am carrion.

 

The imminence of death as it lurks

Casually assessing its contenders

Is a spectre on the horizon

That eclipses hope and makes the moonlight vague

Is this a premonition?

Am I in the cross-hairs of His cold sight?

Or should I simply surrender to some greater design

because He can raise the stakes with His precocious wit

and out-bid my superstitious posturing at any moment

and bring down a curse upon my vanity

I am carrion.