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.

Too many ‘I’s

too-many-is-pic

I was recently offered a seat on a tube

by a young woman with compassion in her heart,

no doubt

but my pride interpreted that as spite

and I refused

left hanging on a strap in mortal decline

and ever since, the scene, it’s implications

re-spooled

play back to me in a quiet yet insistent fugue

You vain ‘old’ fool is the sound-track

following me

trapped words in the carriage of my spoiled journey

A constant rattle and schism as I go about forgetting

that age has put his drape on me

that my vital signs are more evident

to others than to the being I recognize

I can no longer refer to myself in the third person,

casual, flippant or heroic

not now that I am transparent

at large in someone else’s order of magnitude.

I shall stand until I am forced

through stages

to lie down.

By the Bye

 

 by-the-bye

The sky vibrates. It’s colour’s stretched

on winds that make

space

elastic

 

Tourists fly in capsules

enacting the selfish irony of leisure

that travel somehow

broadens the mind

 

We brag with foreign trophies

that our lives are full

and meaningful. Blind perhaps that we are

the forebears of extinction

 

Those silver fish that glint

high in super-cooled blue air

we glimpse with the gift of gravity

are shards of conscience. Pin pricks in flight

 

Our borrowed time is the inheritance

of us. Our genes. Our simple proclivity

to see only what’s in the frame

To stall in ignorance. The complicity of fate.

Belong to ‘hap’

belong-to-hap

 

a carried corpse

a life-long load

the woe of the muddled mind

half filled with slag

no light, no hope

 

Ah, banish that

Corners can be turned

The moon, elastic orb of lunar swellings

can cast milky light on doubts

We can emerge from grime

Swim out into the juice of hope

 

The ineluctable tremor

of passion

can overwhelm the bleak

and lengthening shadow of despair

The slap and tickle of mirth

revivifying contained, stale air

 

Exhume the hope

from wet leaves smudged beneath

your walking feet

All around the air and scenery frets

for us

to entertain the view.