Christopher

Christopher. Pic for poem

 

Shout. Scream

deny all knowledge of that dream

The distance yawns

and fills the void

with stale air and residues

of harm

that neglect will come to know

as regret

that cloying self-pity that hangs

on the rags of remorse

and renders even love

to shrug

and wonder why

 

My boy who is now a man

has drifted in that domain

and knows so little of me

save that I sired him

and hurt his mother cruelly

He finds forgiveness hard

Those blank years went down

in flames and hate

so only silence and darkness

could void the pain

but now I sense the permafrost

might thaw

and I may be allowed

to make some recompense

small reparations to the ship of love

in this slow cycle of drawing out

the heat from that scream

and venom from the shout

 

May soft lips form

around the eternity of air

 that sucks and strains to find

the letters that hide in space

and just might spell

an end to longing

White Out

White Out. Pic for poem

 

Look

how they glide on an ocean

those stick-men and women in suspense

on  surrendered snowflakes

so demure

they abase themselves to blades,

their pressure, cutting swathes

in arcs. A ballet for butchers

Those slopes. No place for feint hearts

for those that can, will, take a tilt at heaven

and those that can’t will tumble

on the  white-down drawn tight

as a sheet raised around the mountain’s flank

in that rare air

accentuating the blue above

Below, in the cleave of the valley

patience waits for spring

to draw down the melt and wash away

the lost and lingering shapes

their whispers and screams

their murmurs, echoes and endearments

as colours regain the heights

A virgin’s flight complete

The anatomy of moments.Two.

The anatomy of moments. Two. pic

 

Melodic slap of dripping water

the sigh of an old door complaining in the hall

the dog dreams in her basket

a mother calls

a father winces

two lovers kiss

a red slash in the sky of excited molecules

and in the desert, sand accepts the heat

while foreign tongues curve and stroke their given air

We are in the domain of otherness

To be enthralled

To be enthralled

 

above

in the blue

spent traces linger

like smoke signals from

the occupants of aeroplanes

nostalgic for earth and all

that gravity

they can see through oval holes

and I wonder

if they wonder

how I am feeling

ant-like here in Sunbury park

a custodian of a dog that is

bewitched by squirrels

and my question is;

are we constrained by frontiers

you,

encircled by the mesh of heaven

and me , on ever extrapolating pathways

where our mutual independence is arbitrated by birds

by wind and nostalgia for what is missing in between

Are we simply refugees?

Recurrence

Recurrence. A picture

 

Across the space night occupied

no trace

but the nuisance of being left

with thoughts

that larceny was involved

cloaked by that surreptitious darkness

able so often to strip the shelves

of my emporium

of everything I lovingly wrapped

and offered for sale

in new light, for other, more innocent

eyes

My own, in sleep

complacent and blind are lazy

before dawn admits the hawkers

and opportunists

who daily put me down

Not ever gone

 

Chess Mates. I have this sense of impending doom.

 

She rests there in dark matter

I apologize for using ‘she’

because mother it is you not she

I celebrate

your name encrypted on stone

an invitation to let go

to loosen tears and wet the earth

embracing you

while fond memories search for the present tense

in words stalled by time but still, their wings

are lamentations

that breathe a garnish on fresh flowers

the mourners grief a mist of warmth

and everything  succumbed to gravity

so that all around you have company

a regiment in this cemetery

and all of you ‘at ease’

Crows feet

Crows feet

 

a bird lays a line against

the blue or grey circumference of doubt

for the sky, it’s sheets draw inexorably

toward the night

and that absence of light

that pulls a curtain on the day

Deep space will offer it’s dome

to those of us who oblige the moon

obeying rituals and cycles

we have come to know

amid those rumours of your day

that heaven steers toward the pillow

The waking dreams will flap

 like washing on a line

hoping to succumb

 to tenderness

in the still and calm of sleep

In that orbit of the resting eye

the universe is brave, unbounded

by superstition

until the day intrudes again

to support some foolish notion of flight.