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

a yard of earth

a yard of earth. pic

 

the buried thoughts lie there

extensions of the temporal world

it’s graven images and dogs bones, forever

begging to rest

 

where amen lies down

for the solitary preacher

wasting eternal penance

and breathing through the soil

remembering, always in remembrance

 

until all the midnight journeys and

changing worlds beyond the next

become sameness,  returned

to a life that is spoken

in chants

Listening for rain

 

Listening to rain.pic for poem

 

nobody asks that I should write

so I go blind to words, those seedlings

in a field of dreams gone fallow

and my fingers get lazy

as they atrophy around the tools

that let my soul identify pain

 

 this sloth hangs heavy on its threads

raggedly denying the cold

but without a sense of cause

as everything within becomes forlorn

and travel, that feeling of impetus,  is second-class

slow and likely to be misplaced

 

softly drips spill against the glass

like diffident soldiers in a phoney war

knock knocking and asking for a doctor, who

will listen to my complaints

and earnestly look into my eyes and say

next please.

Hello, again

Hello

 

come find me passion

maraud across my open spaces

my steppes, swept and dried

tinged and longing for

infinity

where an echo is out-run

where lines are drawn and forgotten

like desire that apes only

the very best moments.

All definition and certainty

subsumed in the haste

to consume a lavish meal.

drowned and spent

The residue. A crust

a lost love affair,

all misty

and so I go

to each new day

an addition. a loss, a stroke

an explosion of now.

James

James for poem

 

a day looms in the near future

laden with unknown fears because

it is, or it could be, a turning point,

a signal, a way-point. Certainly it will mark

a departure and the loss

of our red haired son with his given name

into the company of other men

other souls who seek solace in extremity

who will bawl his name and push him

to limits we his parents never could

never would

and in those moments of strain

where God may not be found but god invoked

this boy, this man, our progeny

must know that our love

will not desert him in that liminal state

he finds between his youth and his future

and he will come to know what I have learnt

that he is powerless, yet as a child of love

he carries us, our love, our future seeds

and he is goodness if he so chooses

variation on a crow

variation on a crow. pic

 

oblivious black                                                                                                         

like blown litter,  he                                                 

a rag on a branch perches                                  

with the suggestion of blue in his wings           

 and electricity shielding a heart beat

below  rapacious eyes that witness the rise

as he smears the air with nonchalance and knows

any loss of height, any turbulence

won’t kill him because sin is dark

and his feathers are without recrimination

so  he taunts me with his lightness of being

 and the complicity of his dark humour

somehow knowing that his death and mine

have been foretold