Seconds out..

Seconds out.. pic for poem

 

 

there is a melting sadness in this process

of time slipping away, unberthing me

and slowly, inexorably, bleeding me of life

by small instants, lost moments and carelessness

 

no matter how diligent I am to stem the flow

the seconds count against me and the ring-man with his towel

and imprecations

are lost in the cries of a crowd that bays for yet more blood

 

deaf, dumb and blind to my predicament

their spittle and urgent desire require a sacrifice

to transcend the moment, dispel the ordinary

and suffer only gods to weep

 

and perhaps I glimpse the beauty in this savagery

of defeat

that this moment holds all of me

every damned thing, mine, to give away in this circle of

diminishing light

A player at the gate

A player at the gate. pic.

 

he plucks at the air

cheese-slicing with the strings

of his mandolin

in a nook in the park

a morning surprise

for dog walkers

the early morning stalkers

people

like me who walk the dog

and contemplate before the day

is fully underway

 

that plaintive sound

is like a herald

light on its feet and

with no malice in its whisper

 issues tones like a broadcast on the day

;  ‘the democracy of joy’

how kind of him to lay in wait

and assault us with music

You man of strings

I commend you for giving me

a bright start.

Shock in Awe

Shock in Awe

Shock in Awe

Shock in Awe

 

He spoke to me of grace

And said it was ‘second-hand’

 

I found that hard to understand

When the words came so easily

 

The air he used he said was spent

Just turned and turned around

 

A soft breeze

That could threaten storms

 

And there I was, as if

In the presence of a prophet

 

Spell-bound in admiration

For a weaver of thoughts

 

But he just smiled and said,

‘ It’s a wonderful thing’

 

And left me flailing

In an alphabet. Like a dope.

Gifts

Gift

Gift

Gift

 

Out there beyond the torpor

Past the grey, cold December light

Other people rush to be involved

Get infected by the seasons’ promise

And find them-selves snarled-up

In traffic. Impetuous to please

 

And so they are gone

Wrapped in their own little bubbles

Imperilled coloured baubles

Infused with fractious lust

Aspirations bloated by want

Adrift in false desire

 

I am witness. Quietly

In a harbour of my own

Less the glitter

Less ardent

But floating nonetheless

In perilous ennui

 

But they have a point

For high days and festivals

Deserve a sincere approach

And I am not fervent

In any of my preparations

Perhaps less qualified for the gift