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 cup of tea ( will settle it)

a cup of tea

 

I salute the deep swells

of an ocean that rolls

it’s hunger audible, sucking, heaving

a breath, then the rasp of shingle

dragged across the palate

that moment of calm, when

I imagine the stomach is full

satiated

before another lunge below the moon

announces gravity will not wait

and sailors bob on waves

duty bound, flung in a dance

a flamenco of spray and romance

and me

so far in land that this

may or may not be happening

but it matters not

because to me it’s all

a cup of tea

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

Kiki

Kiki

 

I take the dog out for a walk

though for her it’s an exercise

in reading the morning papers, sniffing out the headlines

and finding those hidden meanings

that  make her want to squat

and piss upon what passes for news

 

In the early stages she is simply intent

on the leader articles and local items

waiting until she has emptied her bowels

kicked back at the earth to cover her tracks

and swaggered off while I bag up the mess

before she goes on to the gossip and sport

 

We go on like this around the rugby pitches

and through a latch gate to a narrow path

that acts as a bridal way both of us navigate with different hopes;

hers that she will see a horse, a rabbit or squirrel to chase,

mine, that it will unravel  peacefully until we turn left

onto common ground and the relative safety of the park.

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.

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

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