Damn

damn

I see my grey hair in pictures with the family

and realise that I am already passing

into history

How long will it be until the smile fades to ash

and colours in the inks lose their vitality

Can that frame hold fast and keep the memory

or will indifference and fashion

make it hasten into a lost obscurity

Will it all by-pass photo-shop

with it’s technical brilliance,

the mastered pixel rendered and held

for heaven to view in the cloud

Perhaps I am destined to inhabit

the space that the picture frame

purports to keep in an enigmatic perpetuity.

hook, line and thinker………..

hook-line-and-thinker-image-for-poem

A fish landed

out of sorts

and complained bitterly

for the lack of salt

and went on to deride the fisherman

for his clumsy boots

the cracked and melting ice

all the noise on the harbour side,

“for goodness sake, couldn’t you just reel me in?

Have some sport? Instead you come

riding the waves and suck me in

to a harvest of woe

and this indignity. To die

in plain sight in front of a man in white

who puts a price on me

and then, cold eyed, moves on

to appraise the rest of us.

If I could I would put a curse on you”

Later, over sweet tea the fisherman

quite satisfied, said to his wife

“it was a fine catch today”

All about it

all-about-it-pic

A drab, slate grey pall

is drawn across the park

and further for all I know

perhaps even to Uzbekistan

wherever that may be

My dog and I simply walk

a familiar circuit on wet grass

past dead or dying vegetation

surrendered to the season

Dull markers below that impassive sky

In all of this I try

to extract a sense of beauty

out of blind optimism

A duty to the light

that struggles to excite my humanity

That indentured quality we know

in service to respectability

The socks and ties, pressed shirts

and fear of the face on time

are all stitched into the blanket overhead

And back home for tea

Silent rain becomes insistent

watchful for the pores

of vulnerable fabric that will allow

the damp curse to pervade

A lesson in the shaking dog

how violently she dispels

the cloying elements from her coat

eats the proffered food

and slumps down vacantly to sleep.

By the Bye

 

 by-the-bye

The sky vibrates. It’s colour’s stretched

on winds that make

space

elastic

 

Tourists fly in capsules

enacting the selfish irony of leisure

that travel somehow

broadens the mind

 

We brag with foreign trophies

that our lives are full

and meaningful. Blind perhaps that we are

the forebears of extinction

 

Those silver fish that glint

high in super-cooled blue air

we glimpse with the gift of gravity

are shards of conscience. Pin pricks in flight

 

Our borrowed time is the inheritance

of us. Our genes. Our simple proclivity

to see only what’s in the frame

To stall in ignorance. The complicity of fate.

Belong to ‘hap’

belong-to-hap

 

a carried corpse

a life-long load

the woe of the muddled mind

half filled with slag

no light, no hope

 

Ah, banish that

Corners can be turned

The moon, elastic orb of lunar swellings

can cast milky light on doubts

We can emerge from grime

Swim out into the juice of hope

 

The ineluctable tremor

of passion

can overwhelm the bleak

and lengthening shadow of despair

The slap and tickle of mirth

revivifying contained, stale air

 

Exhume the hope

from wet leaves smudged beneath

your walking feet

All around the air and scenery frets

for us

to entertain the view.