Seconds out..

Seconds out.. pic for poem

 

 

there is a melting sadness in this process

of time slipping away, unberthing me

and slowly, inexorably, bleeding me of life

by small instants, lost moments and carelessness

 

no matter how diligent I am to stem the flow

the seconds count against me and the ring-man with his towel

and imprecations

are lost in the cries of a crowd that bays for yet more blood

 

deaf, dumb and blind to my predicament

their spittle and urgent desire require a sacrifice

to transcend the moment, dispel the ordinary

and suffer only gods to weep

 

and perhaps I glimpse the beauty in this savagery

of defeat

that this moment holds all of me

every damned thing, mine, to give away in this circle of

diminishing light

scraps

scraps. pic

 

as we speak

we cling

like partners in a dance

to our very own

alphabet

drawn tight by desire

and we would if we could

make a frieze of the trick

that is language

 

the swollen air we launch

in speech

is full of gifts

and on reflection it is sad

that so many are returned unheard

in the transmission of loss

that only time

in its wise fractions

can attest

Shut eye

Shut eye. pic

 

I am not charmed by the mocking essence

in my dreams

how they tear the lids from the innocent viscosity

of my eyes

and wake me with words that appear to be squeezed

through an aperture of hope that was obviously closed down

aeons ago

is it shame?

is it grief?

that so much loss should pine in my waking head and

churn about and be perplexed by loss and hurt that will

it seems

forever dance in a sensual act of disentanglement

so I languish in this morbid state and hope

for a cessation of the wagging fingers that follow me

Anthems

Anthems. pic

 

I should go without to be with you

dear friend

a blankness in disposable light behind

that curtain of my senses, my

ever ready ego

to enter into still, and find

calm

without ever resorting to fanfares

to strident renditions of blood pumped air

that are coarse and stained by the victims

their residue of wailing from mothers whose wombs

have been torn. their love disinterred

No, not for me a fanfare

no grand show and no jostling of elbows

no jingoism

just the hum of the commonplace. the listening

for quiet spaces and shadows

where love lurks without intentions

Moment

Moment. pic

 

a ‘felt pang’ is knowing loss

that only poetry can express

like sentiments on the breath of a blown kiss

passing into record, to be found, perhaps

at some future time by yet more innocents

surprised that they too are gathering dust

growing into space with the inexorable flight

of the pang of souls and the glitter

of the fragments that gravity reserves for adornments

and gilt on the cards and mementoes

that will announce

the sadness in ‘one’ passing

We are family

We are family. pic.jpg

 

All of this will go. Be gone.

I am in the dissolving instant

already dust  of the future

That text from Gilly brought it home,

how she remembered us on a patch of grass in Southbourne

and me imagining it was a pitch, a full-blown wicket

and I could score

make centuries and maiden over’s with my cousin

unaware of her sex or its implications

and now,  perhaps half a century later

I am returned by words and the memories of another person’s cache

of history to a place and a time I thought I had lost

Sometime soon I will blink and someone else will be reminding me

of where I have been

By God, is that what I get from walking the Dog

the intoxicating sense of memory unearthing scattered parts

of me