Shock in Awe

Writers pique. Photograph

 

He spoke to me of grace

and said it was ‘second hand’

 

I found that hard to understand

when words came so easily

 

The air he used he said ‘was spent’

just turned and turned around

 

 like 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.

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.

Relay

Relay. Poem pic.

 

We pull back on the strings

of history

for comfort and to create

and re-create a sense of awe.

 

We praise the past with our lips

and words that search

for melody in the echoes

that souls leave on beaches and in fields.

 

Old bones fettered by gravity,

the sacraments,

weeping with impatience

muddle in and out of grace.

 

Until nothing is left

beyond peace and praise.

The memory embellished

and ready to be passed on.

Castaway

Castaway

I am sat

stark naked on a sunday morning

reviewing the dark past,

and stewing

with those tangled, escaping memories

over my part in all of that.

And on a blank sheet of paper,

white, beside me, waiting, innocent,

a pubic hair.

Insouciant. Detached from me

lazing absently

Laughing at incongruity.

Foot-steps

Mum. Helston. 1948.

Mum. Helston. 1948.

Foot-prints

 

Nothing but the quiet sympathy of mourners

Stretched around the ground

Simpering in half-choked grief

The suitable clothes, mostly dark or neutral

Lay down a grid

For professionals in tuxedo’s and studied gait

To do the solemn walk

The car, black, an echo now

Is set to heel

While stones form an arch

That tears flow through

And we are greeted by music

Bade to sit. Reflect

That life is a mirror in which we see

The survivor and his secret thoughts

So. Mother. I think of you.

Six months you have lain

Beneath those marks we made

Around your grave

Can you see the soles of my shoes from where you are?

God rest you Mum.

Rhythm and Hues: ‘whoop-de-doo’

'whoop-de-doo'

‘whoop-de-doo’

A rhymester writes

I was always set to do

Something along these lines

The ‘whoop-de-doo’

A mission statement

My coat of arms

A calling card

A visual cue

The sonic signature

Of a guy who does

The ‘whoop-de-doo’

It’s attitude and life-style for a man

Who wants to mesmerise you

So listen to the little guy

Who is a shadow, you’re counterpart

When he whistles and coo’s

Aware that he’s been tickled by

The ‘whoop-de-doo’

There’s no hiding nor shame

In a continuous rhythm

That settles in the mind

Colours the blood

And fills all your waking spaces

With ‘whoop-de-doo’