James

James for poem

 

a day looms in the near future

laden with unknown fears because

it is, or it could be, a turning point,

a signal, a way-point. Certainly it will mark

a departure and the loss

of our red haired son with his given name

into the company of other men

other souls who seek solace in extremity

who will bawl his name and push him

to limits we his parents never could

never would

and in those moments of strain

where God may not be found but god invoked

this boy, this man, our progeny

must know that our love

will not desert him in that liminal state

he finds between his youth and his future

and he will come to know what I have learnt

that he is powerless, yet as a child of love

he carries us, our love, our future seeds

and he is goodness if he so chooses

variation on a crow

variation on a crow. pic

 

oblivious black                                                                                                         

like blown litter,  he                                                 

a rag on a branch perches                                  

with the suggestion of blue in his wings           

 and electricity shielding a heart beat

below  rapacious eyes that witness the rise

as he smears the air with nonchalance and knows

any loss of height, any turbulence

won’t kill him because sin is dark

and his feathers are without recrimination

so  he taunts me with his lightness of being

 and the complicity of his dark humour

somehow knowing that his death and mine

have been foretold

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

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