Carrion

Carrion. Pic for poem

 

My thoughts are turning

My face turning

At what I feel is coming

An avalanche from the future

Brooding

And I shall look at it

With the fear that we all must possess

That deep embedded reflex

Of flight or fright

I am carrion.

 

The imminence of death as it lurks

Casually assessing its contenders

Is a spectre on the horizon

That eclipses hope and makes the moonlight vague

Is this a premonition?

Am I in the cross-hairs of His cold sight?

Or should I simply surrender to some greater design

because He can raise the stakes with His precocious wit

and out-bid my superstitious posturing at any moment

and bring down a curse upon my vanity

I am carrion.

At the bar

 

 

My old bones in the morning ache

like cogs and wheels accumulating

rust from a cloying atmosphere.

Decrepitude. It mocks.

But I sense in this calling of time

a humour that goes with the warning

so I can languish in the arrested zone

and take stock

by starring in some delicious dreams

so real that heaven has surely come

and wrapped me in a welcome blanket.

So here, between the light and dark,

the mild and bitters,

I am a novice.

Ready to go lightly and laugh

at the tolling of last orders.

Ladies and Gentlemen. Time Please.

Ego a Go Go

Ego a Go Go

 

I am the morsel

A chatter box, blah blah

I’ll have a laugh

Forget the past

Those days that are now in ruins

 

And tears still run

Still come to visit

At times that are not appropriate

They are just calling cards

Markers of doused flames

 

And now the mist lays down

When birdsong punctuates

Silence and blank thoughts

Which are pre-cursors

To another day in flight

Wash day

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that beauty would be given shine

a rosary, an oath. The sheen on time

Each day rising through veils

so lazy blood is stirred to acknowledge life

and daybreak comes with virtue

A guarantee that love will whisper

in your ear, if you can find some harmony

some gentle way to deal with pain

and wrap your heart around the fear

that threatens to constrict the flow of blood

which surges in a questioning tide

all around

And all around

Begin again. Purge that fear

Accept the rhythm and go

barefoot repeatedly through the cycle

of light and dark

naked as your last thought