Returning as ever to sender

returning-as-ever-to-sender

Poetry is the sound the soul makes

as it exits your being

Our lives are turned around and around

like whispers in the alphabet

We are the random strokes

of a larger love

that seeks and lingers

and crashes on a distant shore

feeling always for entirety

whilst clinging to the roots

So yes, we are small, yet

we glimpse it all.

Echo

Echo

Echo

Echo

 

 

That midnight spell

When we capered in moon-light

Felled trees with shafts of cold precision

And waited for the morning dew

To lay diamonds on the day

Though nothing was sordid

Not like an inhabited day

Which rains through grimy overlays

But now, in silence

The dark and smothered perspective

Is waiting for sound

To give distance away

Echo

 

 

That midnight spell

When we capered in moon-light

Felled trees with shafts of cold precision

And waited for the morning dew

To lay diamonds on the day

Though nothing was sordid

Not like an inhabited day

Which rains through grimy overlays

But now, in silence

The dark and smothered perspective

Is waiting for sound

To give distance away

Speech Bubbles

Speech Bubbles

Speech Bubbles

Speech Bubbles

 

Is poetry a parcel for universal suffering

An enclosure for loss

The entry point of a wound

The exit where death remembers the whole

Or am I in my self-appointed fashion

My buttons, frills and high blown fancy

That nothingness contained in bubbles?

 

Froth, spume and cotton drift

On a barren road imagined

Out of the wildest west

The creaking spoke of a decorative wheel

That blisters tired wood and listens to

A screeching lament of rust on metal

 

All these startled visions are

Quiet intersections caught in thought

Harvested as food

For minds that seek

Succour in company

Dried strips of meat

For curing

The smell of which

May entertain a soul

Black-out

Black-out

 

A desultory breeze leeched away the years

frenziedly, epically careless

tearing at the surface of life

so that parts are now barren

lost to other continents

my silt accreting on roof tops and cars

annoying strangers – raising ire

where once my life force was being spent

 

Looking back I sense black holes

whole episodes of the theatre of me

vanished behind the dark fabric of denial

and wonder if the other players

still carry vestiges, my fragments

or if history has taken them to heaven

where in another phase

we shall meet again

A film on The Green

Night visions

Night visions

 

What does the night evoke?

A placid moon

Raptures on The Green

When atmosphere surrounds the scene

And this man made detail

With sounds and vision

Is a shared spectacle

Gathering a charm under stars

To do outside in the elements

What we mostly do in theatres

Where the mind is cocooned

And comfort comes with a ticket

But here they go Al Fresco

And the better for it

Because community breeds peace

So we may all return

When the vision has been packed away

Grass remains

A communal space to play

Casual thoughts and foot-prints

On familiar soil

Occasional Table

Occasional Table

Occasional Table 

A small table left to founder in the garage

Stands in poor light. Ignored

The pitted surfaces accumulate dust

Spiders trails. Filaments that catch light

And lend a desultory romance to the loss

Of occasional usefulness

Whatever purpose those four feet enjoyed

Has been lost to a casual amnesia

But now I see opportunity

Texture. Form. Transition

A languishing beauty that simpers

With an essential dignity awaiting restoration

I have the fingers, the vision

Special effects and enthusiasm

To re-invigorate the very sap

Those four legs in forced exile conceal

Arise, utilitarian object

Let the present unmask your hidden talents

And re-take your bright place

In my impetuous future

Together we shall

Experience hilarity.