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

equinox

equinox. pic

 

pearlescent light on down

glows softly white

the swan, regal in its habitat

glides on the mirror of last night’s dreams

oblivious

to all but history and her mate

today

coming on the back of time

which shifted seasons and stepped one hour back

so now the dark water sucks

the summer’s heat into its depths

and all of this the mute swan

reflects

as such, perhaps, maybe

as such,perhaps,maybe pic for poem

 

invite me in

to your parade of words

let them shine and settle as motes

fairies in a time of gloom

on surfaces that shudder to the touch

let me not go blind to them

though they may be false prophets

let me indulge them

though sloth hangs heavy on it’s threads

 my fingers are lazy

as repentant soldiers that limp slowly

imparting  messages from brain to drain, HQ to sump

and dump everything around the curvature

of the earth

raggedly denying  the cold

that fringe of utterly knowing

and not knowing

the blessed rim, the circumference

of hope

from a distance

from a distance. pic for poem

 

a never ending song sits with me

in moments of passing

shedding fractions that will never return

like an aurora in the window of my soul

whose evocations of impermanence

are hazy, as a memory lost

in the litany of moments I regard as treasures

buried deep in the recesses and shadows

of places where I have been

and so my past, a growing thing

is littered with the lost colonies

of fleeting fame

when I was king

harvesting bright experience

from the luxury of a lost responsibility

so far from home

Seconds out..

Seconds out.. pic for poem

 

 

there is a melting sadness in this process

of time slipping away, unberthing me

and slowly, inexorably, bleeding me of life

by small instants, lost moments and carelessness

 

no matter how diligent I am to stem the flow

the seconds count against me and the ring-man with his towel

and imprecations

are lost in the cries of a crowd that bays for yet more blood

 

deaf, dumb and blind to my predicament

their spittle and urgent desire require a sacrifice

to transcend the moment, dispel the ordinary

and suffer only gods to weep

 

and perhaps I glimpse the beauty in this savagery

of defeat

that this moment holds all of me

every damned thing, mine, to give away in this circle of

diminishing light

and in the morning

and in the morning. pic

 

I sit playing at words and looking

for their ruined meanings while

above me rain detaches itself from the moods

that are clouds that linger in doom

and laugh as they get lighter and pull away

to a heaven that smiles on the other side of the world

and upside down other people find congress

in immaculate thoughts just like mine

though all of it is, of course, unknowable

and that sussurating sound of damp pellets on glass

is soothing and somehow washes away

the stain of grief – that echo

that seems to last, cloying like a partner in a sensual dance

guiding me with soft fingers into vice

scraps

scraps. pic

 

as we speak

we cling

like partners in a dance

to our very own

alphabet

drawn tight by desire

and we would if we could

make a frieze of the trick

that is language

 

the swollen air we launch

in speech

is full of gifts

and on reflection it is sad

that so many are returned unheard

in the transmission of loss

that only time

in its wise fractions

can attest