and in the morning

and in the morning. pic

 

I sit playing at words and looking

for their ruined meanings while

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

and upside down other people find congress

in immaculate thoughts just like mine

though all of it is, of course, unknowable

and that sussurating sound of damp pellets on glass

is soothing and somehow washes away

the stain of grief – that echo

that seems to last, cloying like a partner in a sensual dance

guiding me with soft fingers into vice

Dash

Dash

 

Make speed you timid beast

go quickly, to a blur

on loping, elastic legs

outreach the other ones for fun

and track back to Bob and Madge

for their calm containment

until another contender dares

to put you to the test

and is left, inevitably, in a flurry

of losing dust quite off the pace

and panting, deflated. Bemused.

Whilst we human types applaud

the grace and dignity of flight

Go Dash. Embrace the wind

and wait on uneven terms

for another one to take a tilt

at your flashing title

Go Dash.

bye bye man

bye bye man

under a black felt brim

eyes dark with a candour

that have seen all manner of things

wonder whether they should plead

for clemency or a piece of that notion

that compassion will cure all ills

for in that stare so many fires

have withered on coals

raked over and left cooling till

soft grey ash is swept up on murmurs of

casual air

those whispered endearments

and promises that sustain a heart

that wishes to pump more

than just blood

around the ache of desire

He knows in there

there is no room for mercy

for justice will be implacable

His day is up

and so

under that felt overhang

he has already gone

Scraps

Scraps. Poem photograph

They never fall

those spots of reason

on flesh drawn tight, in retreat

hauled about and withered

by fears stacked up

and winking at, no other way

because there was

no other way

not then.

But now a rush of rust on metal

those screech marks of decay

like time, bold on the eaten substance

would render beauty to a mind

so bidden

But,

lassitude allows mould

to fret and gather over

those dull accomplishments

and the question of;

what is this ache?

inherits the colour blue

that famous state

folk hero hue

that is a piece of mind gone flaky

an intimate knowledge

belonging to more than just the few.

Scraps.

it is always scraps

that in the end

are left

in view.