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.

inside out

inside out. pic for poem

 

that stranger in the mind sits

as if on a tightrope

suspended between heaven and earth

convinced somehow that sense will shine

and YOU will blush from the pleasure

of bearing witness to greatness

YOU will take a token of spent love

tossed off as a casual gift

and be blessed by that contaminate

 

Only time in it’s wise fractions

will testify

spreading gaunt strips of doubt

and shake those deluded notions

until life or death can be resolved

to sanction that sense of loss

bestowing gravity on your conceit

for that stranger in the mind

must be exposed

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.

Crow

Crow. Pic for poem

 

oblivious black. a rag on a branch

and nonchalant at height

he knows the fall won’t kill him

for his wings will intervene and flap at the air

and make the lightness of being a natural thing

such ignorance, as I impute

is actually magnificent

implacable. mute. absorbed

it is only me who is troubled

so what if he wears black

Big Top

Big Top. pic

 

other people’s encampments, their pleasure zones, for once,

are not off-limits or out of bounds

Their gaudy fare and pick-pockets mix with those types who

sport tattoos, chew gum and wear flamboyant  facial hair

The otherness of it all, the pornography of colour and sound

and everything somehow beyond confession as if it was

all dressed up in the dark so pleasure and sin can be

made thrilling in the anonymity of shared experience

 

Those minstrels come to town in wagons and caravans

that seem to be beyond normal law

Charlatans with soft toys and goldfish they would sell as gifts

All gaudy hostages in transit, into whose misfortune we become

complicit

The ground itself a crime scene. Innocent lush grass crushed

not just once but an entire Village Green, a sacred space, sacrificed

to organs and screams. And then it’s gone

The Circus woven and spun into and out of itself

The Big Top, fascinatingly,  moving on and leaving me with

distorted visions in vanishing hub caps

my soiled prurience intact,  until they roll into town again

Breaks it

Breaks it. pic

 

this howling wind makes the sound of denial

edging and barging at the sides

of everything that has

the temerity

to even co-exist

it is like a beast contained but

I enjoy it’s song

always changing shape

escaping, seeking

breathless in its own anomaly

                                                of sound

I can imagine frontiers re-arranged

whole empires usurped

before the political elites are made aware

and how fun that would be

as the wind lifts off their suits and

shames them

their stolen respectability strewn

across frontiers and fences

undergarments on overhead lines

storm Georgina I would bow to thee

Not if nor when nor never then…

 

Not if nor when nor never then... pic

nourished by the sounds they make

I go on

blindly, more in hope than

 with any resolution that could give me strength

 for they seem to rise and fall

with reason

whatever that tidal condition is

and I puff and pant

metaphorically

on the diaphragm of this worlds’

bleeding conscience

never sure whether I have

enough words

to fill the space vacated

by reason

whose box of tricks and verbal tics

confuse me, refuse me

make waste where there was scant

room for loss

and though I am mostly moribund

I have such faith in beauty

like the perennially scorned lover

who draws the line at suicide

I continue to weave in the traffic

of words

trailing in their vapour, their scent

in thrall to an elusive sense

of reason.