Shut eye

Shut eye. pic

 

I am not charmed by the mocking essence

in my dreams

how they tear the lids from the innocent viscosity

of my eyes

and wake me with words that appear to be squeezed

through an aperture of hope that was obviously closed down

aeons ago

is it shame?

is it grief?

that so much loss should pine in my waking head and

churn about and be perplexed by loss and hurt that will

it seems

forever dance in a sensual act of disentanglement

so I languish in this morbid state and hope

for a cessation of the wagging fingers that follow me

Many happy returns

Watch face.jpg

 

last night a shower of beer rained down

over Bristol, London, Birmingham and far beyond

or at least that’s what I saw on the news

and out-performed any rainfall we have had for months

in a raucous tumult of emotion that echoed

the Roar of 66′

this morning, gingerly

blue skies are the blessing that meets

 those bleary eyes and broken hearts

that dared to dream and over-step the mark but

the grass will celebrate in the sweet ooze that was thrown away

and rise again

 so come home

young men and rub shoulders amongst your kith and kin

and know that we have shared your time abroad

been brought to our knees with you

so close, as ever, to that fervent wish.

we are stalled

 

we are stalled. pic for poem

as we look for change

that would not blight the small things

those things that are peripheral

like coins that fail to amount to much and disappoint

as lust does in the youth who is still unacquainted with success

in life and love and patience

so we think of puberty and how that changes us

and so on for the sake of it

the leitmotif, tra la, of life

ever in the swell of a slow rolling sea

captives of change where memories and dreams

are fine dust, the diaspora of Angels cast-offs as we

the unbelievers

run in frozen time away from Pompeii

away from the blindness that just won’t go away

one bright moment of hope

one bright moment of hope. pic

 

each horizon, each moment spent

a salt water kiss, another spasm riding

into the next and this fraction is all of me

my orange cup, the bubbles on the meniscus

of cooling tea

a plane droning overhead

vacuuming the air for the dust

of our ordinary lives and leaving

grounded specks and motes, dazzling

in air shot through with brilliant light as if

our dreams could be kept in quarantine

then released again in another place

refreshed from tedium and ushered into a stalled excitement

that would last, for once

before the signature of loss was dry

.. to take a leap of faith

Boys at play

 

beyond

imagine it. just beyond

the fledgling on a ledge

deep space beyond and more

that miasma of fear which constricts

every tissue and fibre and

unknowable thing

from taking a leap of faith

 

brother, sister, mother, father, friend

watch over me for I am one

who knows how it feels to stall mid-flight

at that precipice

and court the most unholy thoughts

to allow any manner of darkness in

but in my heart and in my soul

I know I am here because

the ones before me took that leap

they loved me

and I will honour them

Moment

Moment. pic

 

a ‘felt pang’ is knowing loss

that only poetry can express

like sentiments on the breath of a blown kiss

passing into record, to be found, perhaps

at some future time by yet more innocents

surprised that they too are gathering dust

growing into space with the inexorable flight

of the pang of souls and the glitter

of the fragments that gravity reserves for adornments

and gilt on the cards and mementoes

that will announce

the sadness in ‘one’ passing

Gate House

Gate House. pic

 

some people mind

take the opportunity to sneer

to feel superior

at the man in his hut with the power

to raise or lower a barrier

that demarcates the space between

those that have

a very great deal

and those that are consigned to less

As I pass through as an invitee to a ‘do’

into the world of more

I feel unsteady, as if I am being asked

to join a club and become complicit

in a robbery

wherein the rich steal a little more

from their compatriots. The poor.

pond skaters waltz on the surface of water

ruffled by a fountain centred in an ornamental lake

as swans glide-by and fish do their mystery below

A midday sun renders warmth to shade and etches at

the silhouettes of anything that moves. Languid strokes.

All of it quite nonchalant.  Removed from caring

for the man in the hut with the power to raise a barrier

watching them all come and go from his common place

his vigilance, their shield

Some people mind