Christopher

Christopher. Pic for poem

 

Shout. Scream

deny all knowledge of that dream

The distance yawns

and fills the void

with stale air and residues

of harm

that neglect will come to know

as regret

that cloying self-pity that hangs

on the rags of remorse

and renders even love

to shrug

and wonder why

 

My boy who is now a man

has drifted in that domain

and knows so little of me

save that I sired him

and hurt his mother cruelly

He finds forgiveness hard

Those blank years went down

in flames and hate

so only silence and darkness

could void the pain

but now I sense the permafrost

might thaw

and I may be allowed

to make some recompense

small reparations to the ship of love

in this slow cycle of drawing out

the heat from that scream

and venom from the shout

 

May soft lips form

around the eternity of air

 that sucks and strains to find

the letters that hide in space

and just might spell

an end to longing

162

162

 

The red door pulses

as it might

for I lived there once

it stands there still

without my sense of torn loyalty

happy in it’s one eyed way

to let all-comers in

the mail, knocks and endearments

not at all sensitive to my loss

my memories  locked in the carapace

of a life slipping away

 

You felt my brush strokes

the lick of paint rising to blood red.

it was visceral. you knew me

yet now

you stand guard

like some impartial sentinel and forget

that we have shared memories

yes, memories

of how I used a plane to ease your swelling mass

when the wet weather got to you

and how you witnessed my brother Mark and I

walk out on the day of my mother’s burial

and back for a desultory wake

so now it bothers me

that you

never really knew my knock

Destroyevski

Destroyevski. pic

 

It is all as it ever was

despite the incremental improvements

the sense of loss persists as though now

has been appropriated

and I sit in the circle of loss

whatever that is

and fret at the perimeter of sense

though really all meaning has been dis-emvowelled

leaving me with the parched bones

inexpertly sifting for meaning

and trying to divine a process

in this continuum of doubt

that the believer in me might adopt

in favour of the heretic who dances on the fringes

alluring in weak moments

Is this conscience?

Or fear that I may drown in self pity

at the lock-gates of my heart

turning the waters into a whine.

The anatomy of moments.Two.

The anatomy of moments. Two. pic

 

Melodic slap of dripping water

the sigh of an old door complaining in the hall

the dog dreams in her basket

a mother calls

a father winces

two lovers kiss

a red slash in the sky of excited molecules

and in the desert, sand accepts the heat

while foreign tongues curve and stroke their given air

We are in the domain of otherness

Recurrence

Recurrence. A picture

 

Across the space night occupied

no trace

but the nuisance of being left

with thoughts

that larceny was involved

cloaked by that surreptitious darkness

able so often to strip the shelves

of my emporium

of everything I lovingly wrapped

and offered for sale

in new light, for other, more innocent

eyes

My own, in sleep

complacent and blind are lazy

before dawn admits the hawkers

and opportunists

who daily put me down

The anatomy of moments (the first)

Tne anatomy of moments

 

stars, the shards of a shattered universe

cry, tear drops on a canvas of dreams

we shall never inhabit for they are

just echoes of a time long dead

 

it is all I have

and I have known love

but it is still a gaping

sense of loss

 

my mother’s endless encouragement

a vapour now that she has gone

my wit, my charm, my accomplishments

just crumbs on a well worn floor

 

my love of poetry

an idolatry for the patterns words weave

is always moderated by an X-Ray

that filters through me

 

looking for scar tissue and wounds

that might build a case

for a better model

more robust in the ways of the world

 

but these moments are

refugees in a crisis of confidence

bound in nightmares to roam

in uncertainty

 

programmed to return

wanton with a savage lust

to rent and sunder

where sunlight would prefer to rest.

Though sparks may fly.

Though sparks may fly. pic

 

he cut my chord with barren words

that echo even now when I

in my sixth decade find spite hidden

in memories

that wake me in the night

and know that my stump

that bit of me we call the soul

is grieving still and asking

plaintive questions knowing that

darkness will over-take every one

of my days

and lay waste to

the child who is still-born

within me.

 So I carry my own foetus unwillingly

in search of life

though in it’s sac, nightly,

I wake flinching at wounds

it’s memory holds intact

forever unleashing the last word

with a prick

to burst the tight skin

of my pride

 and damning with loveless eyes.