New day

New day. pic for poem.jpg

 

dried aromatic fruit in a bowl,

listlessly emits a fragrance

it’s yellow lemon slices lay down and serve

a purpose, throwing us off the scent

of household smells, the settling of history into fabrics

into carpets coated with the travellings of family life

the pets and children, friends and villains that

transmit the dirt and odours of the everyday

and I sit here with it’s feint smell

and wonder if it helps

 

I am naked and waiting for the day

to unfold

should I wait? should I press play?

will this not be like any other day

such quandaries are defining moments as I drift in space

the small and incidental bits most easily forgotten

become a personal history

My aim?

for it not to turn to grief. to potpourri.

A to Z

a to z. pic

 

leaves lay down on the path

their colours gone quiet, like mourners

and wait

for yet another foot to fall

to make an impression and leave

the cold trace of a dog or it’s masters progress

and out of the blue church bells chime

at ten past ten precisely, a descant

peeling off memories from the surface

of the still air that withholds all it can of last year

I am, it seems, stuck in a pause and waiting

for time itself to acquiesce and loosen up

to free me from my own mystifying history

and this harbour of threadbare dreams where

leaves lay down on the path

equinox

equinox. pic

 

pearlescent light on down

glows softly white

the swan, regal in its habitat

glides on the mirror of last night’s dreams

oblivious

to all but history and her mate

today

coming on the back of time

which shifted seasons and stepped one hour back

so now the dark water sucks

the summer’s heat into its depths

and all of this the mute swan

reflects

Anthems

Anthems. pic

 

I should go without to be with you

dear friend

a blankness in disposable light behind

that curtain of my senses, my

ever ready ego

to enter into still, and find

calm

without ever resorting to fanfares

to strident renditions of blood pumped air

that are coarse and stained by the victims

their residue of wailing from mothers whose wombs

have been torn. their love disinterred

No, not for me a fanfare

no grand show and no jostling of elbows

no jingoism

just the hum of the commonplace. the listening

for quiet spaces and shadows

where love lurks without intentions

You called

You called. pic for poem

 

a slim rope braided to form

a cord from which a brass whistle would

in its heyday dangle as

a symbol of authority. This whistle

 is now a tarnished and tired brass ornament

on the end of a dusty tether

but still it holds weight and mutely muscled dignity

so history can resonate with respect

and call to mind the circumstances

when it was employed to summon assistance

to the long arm of the law

laid down in colonies that formed an Empire

in another world whose echoes and traces still pulse

in air that is all but oblivious to lips, now cold,

that pressed so urgently and blew

for order and help

in a time gone deaf to Imperial Rule.

El Colido ( Special Selection )

El Colido. pic

 

Del Coronas were the original inhabitants

of this nondescript wooden box

that sits mute on the table before me

a found object and within

the paraphernalia of reward for a serving man

medals, buttons, ribbons and bars

glowing in an incongruous melange

of untidy history

the man, my father,  has long since passed away

honoured now by scraps of metal

dim memories and a surname

that carries the line

so I wonder;

will I be found in a box

that once conveyed an expensive aroma

of unlit sticks, dull stones and bones

impassive but portentous

of what once was.