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.

Though sparks may fly.

Though sparks may fly. pic

 

he cut my chord with barren words

that echo even now when I

in my sixth decade find spite hidden

in memories

that wake me in the night

and know that my stump

that bit of me we call the soul

is grieving still and asking

plaintive questions knowing that

darkness will over-take every one

of my days

and lay waste to

the child who is still-born

within me.

 So I carry my own foetus unwillingly

in search of life

though in it’s sac, nightly,

I wake flinching at wounds

it’s memory holds intact

forever unleashing the last word

with a prick

to burst the tight skin

of my pride

 and damning with loveless eyes.

Ego a Go Go

Ego a Go Go

 

I am the morsel

A chatter box, blah blah

I’ll have a laugh

Forget the past

Those days that are now in ruins

 

And tears still run

Still come to visit

At times that are not appropriate

They are just calling cards

Markers of doused flames

 

And now the mist lays down

When birdsong punctuates

Silence and blank thoughts

Which are pre-cursors

To another day in flight

Always

Always. pic for poem

All visions are, as dreams

elided by the sting

of disappointment

They find horizons hemmed by lesser men

who languish at the frontiers

of all I ever wished for

so,

I glimpse perimeters

always

and know that I am contained

within this spirit world

of bloodsurge and ego

peeping at the possibilities

that sustain hope yet

always

a constraining hand will

by its’ magic

clench and keep me shy

of all that light

That Promised Land

always

Expectant

Expectant. pic

I want more

That is my condition. My dread

I am the eager hunger

a lust of want on margins

imagined, never seen

Of echoes, shreds of neverbeens

dying coals and finite seams

that refuse to manifest.

Perhaps it is all pornography

it’s crooked lines on pure white paper

and stains on beauty where promises

were never kept.

What is left is a crust

of tears, wind-dried

a legacy that anthropologists will find

and with it kindly trace a history

from something

I never knew

Wash day

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

that beauty would be given shine

a rosary, an oath. The sheen on time

Each day rising through veils

so lazy blood is stirred to acknowledge life

and daybreak comes with virtue

A guarantee that love will whisper

in your ear, if you can find some harmony

some gentle way to deal with pain

and wrap your heart around the fear

that threatens to constrict the flow of blood

which surges in a questioning tide

all around

And all around

Begin again. Purge that fear

Accept the rhythm and go

barefoot repeatedly through the cycle

of light and dark

naked as your last thought