Traces

Traces. pic for poem

 

distortions of the real world are glimpsed

in the fading light from planets we cannot reach

we writhe and moan at fallen beauty

exaggerations of form that illuminate our limitations

like

soft green moss on the leeward side of a fallen branch

as if beauty would adhere to the rules of an auction

where the gavel comes down and makes a pronouncement on taste

though the ‘blind bids’ are king in the market place of ART

your thoughts kind sir/madam are as nought

you may keep them to yourself when

the only margin for error is poverty

and if you inhabit that space you are inadmissible – hard fact

for beauty that has form can be traded

but the peasant must be willing to sweat in order to admire

the finer things and dream – to aspire

and chase shadows that even the rich are aware of

because in the shallows there is a harbour

where dreams and boats drown in

far removed from honest toil

Ha

Ha. pic for poem

 

 

 

I look at me

with my ego smeared

the shared history between my eyes

in that smudge on glass that was once

hot

breathing shallow now, the heat

on simmer

where once it bubbled I am confronted

with a lurk

a knowing look – maladroit

that has replaced the complacent years

where all that milk and honey was spent

what I imagine now

is the drool

overlapping and seeping – cruel

my vanity exposed – my fate

made me look, made me stare

a childish dare and then a prank

gone sour

cracked vision on the wall

tired of taunts

I’m going to embark on a course

of self-improvement – nutrients

make me look, make me stare

a childish response, vanishing in thin air

Ha

strips of colour

strips of colour. pic

 

2001 a striped green odyssey

new house, new walls – frontiers to decorate

make our own in the image –  of us

a thick chalk stripe and pale green

no harbinger of climate change – no prescience

just the primitive urge to alter and overwhelm

previous incarnations and their orthodoxies

so we set about the newly stripped walls

with paper and paste then cut lengths

hanging chads of green and chalk vertically aligned

 

2020 suspecting it is time, again, for change we

erase the intermittent green enthusiasm

and come up to speed with the colour of now

having sat in bed on sundays with the papers

our backs, virtually, against the wall – blase about our choices

the passive tapestry unflinching at world events

solemn in its duty to conform to our sense of what

should decorate the space where we have been most intimate

the cuts into corners where we swore at each other for incompetence

have settled into our own folklore as we dare to dream of something other

than green

James

James and I. Collage 2019

 

a day looms in the near future

laden with unknown fears

it is, or it could be, a turning point

a signal, a way point. Certainly it marks

a departure

of our red-haired son with his given name

into the company of other men

other souls who seek solace in extremity

who will bawl his name and push him

to limits we, his parents, never could, never would

and in those moments of strain

where God may not be found but God invoked

this boy, this man, our progeny

will know that our love will not desert him

in that liminal state he finds between his youth and his future

and will he know what I have learnt

that he is powerless, yet as a child of love

he carries us, our love, our future seeds

and he is goodness if he so chooses

And in the morning

Bell weather

 

I sit playing at words and looking

for their ruined meanings as

above me rain detaches itself from the moods

that are clouds that linger in doom

and laugh as they get lighter and pull away

to a heaven that smiles on the other side of the world

while upside down other people find congress

in immaculate thoughts,  just like mine

though it all, of course, is unknowable

and that susurration  of damp pellets on glass,

that rain, is somehow soothing as it washes away

the stain of grief – the echo

that seems to last, to follow and linger

like a partner in a sensual dance

guiding me with soft fingers into vice

 

Tomorrow will try to intrude

and entertain my future with presentiments but

I am caught here in the cloying sense of a loss that is impending

the gravity of doubt that knows me, owns me

so well that I have adopted it and beg to drown

in this timely shower of raindrops surrendering on glass

the drum beat and patter of those renegade soldiers

dividing me from fate as they slip away in disarray

beseeching the spent remorseless air to mourn

other fallen dreams set fast in the earth with encryptions

on stone tablets that are stoic with their enduring love

the epitaphs that outlive sorrow day after day

and all the letters bleed from their wounds, their histories

the kindness of flowers left at the scene

and in the morning

I am the news

I am the news. pic for poem

 

I am a sculpture

waiting upon reason, mercy and miracles

to mould me and make sense of each

passing moment that renders me as small

 

I am an echo

of nothing more than memories that slink

in the undergrowth of  my own propaganda

and threaten my neck with a sensual constriction

 

As spirits go

I am evaporating on the back of so many

disappointments

that a ghost would wail at the iniquity

of living in this entanglement

 

but I am immune

as a rogue infection to clinical intervention –

a bacteria so fit that healthy cells

emigrate to other hosts and leave me isolated

in my own member state

 

I am dilute

as my age dictates

that blood relatives die around me

and I take the calls of surviving kin

and enter in to their ‘arrangements’

 

I am the understudy

for my impending future, the heir apparent

to a ‘long wait’ that others may remark

was lived in haste and might in time improve

goodbye Michael

goodbye Michael. pic

 

her voice stretched by emptiness

she simply said;

” I thought you should know Michael passed away today”

he chose a Sunday to go into permanence

and leave his wife and family on the day of rest

today marks the Autumn Equinox, two equal halves of light and shade

one teardrop hangs and waits for gravity to be the judge

our parliament  in tatters, the country in turmoil

and as we read the news

one can’t help but feel that though his mind was in decline

he chose his moment well.