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.

Dry spell

Dry Spell. For poem.

Soft brush of rain on glass overhead

the fall of notes punctuating this space below

A mood evoked

I surrender to the gradient of sounds sent down

from somewhere in the sky

and wallow in the melody

of a siren song

Will I venture out into the physicality

of precipitation

or immerse myself in the comfort

of discomfort kept at bay

These small margins of progress are the order

of my day

How good it is to live in luxury

the day before..

the-day-before

the day before..

colour seeped and spread

like a bruise. A living statement

Like growth on the dawn

and hurt on the flesh

Such transience

yesterday..

and now the rain comes

teeming with the intent

to drench

every living thing that dares

to bear arms in an open space

today..

an awkward truce of clouds

blown and stretched in huffy air

A paleness in the blue that is morose

stalks unwilling partners in a dance

that must unfold

Daylight

Daylight

Dawn. Below the conscious curtain

Muddy blood and feelings

Not yet warmed

Are hemmed-in

Hooded by something desolate

And light struggles to enter

Can you cut two slits

To penetrate the veil

Can you be a saviour

Enter below skin

Infiltrate a little goodness

And leave without a bruise

The air is static

A wide pulse that waits

Spider-like for vibration

And I pause

As I have done so many times

For gravity to sink the gloom.

This day

This day

This day

 

The rain comes down on panes

Of glass that shudder with wet sounds

A tumbling repetition of reminders

That life is tough

 

The sky. Implacably grey

Emits its silver pellets

With the blank poker-face

Of a giant in the grip of boredom

 

And we, with our intermittent hopes

Shelter from the aural assault

Diffident. Changing the scope of plans

That were set firm before the fall

 

Puddles formed in cavaties

Swell, seeking a spirit level

Rising to the point at which

Our collective hopes will sink

 

And thus another day colludes

With our remaindered views

To put a weight upon

Desire