Carrion

Carrion. Pic for poem

 

My thoughts are turning

My face turning

At what I feel is coming

An avalanche from the future

Brooding

And I shall look at it

With the fear that we all must possess

That deep embedded reflex

Of flight or fright

I am carrion.

 

The imminence of death as it lurks

Casually assessing its contenders

Is a spectre on the horizon

That eclipses hope and makes the moonlight vague

Is this a premonition?

Am I in the cross-hairs of His cold sight?

Or should I simply surrender to some greater design

because He can raise the stakes with His precocious wit

and out-bid my superstitious posturing at any moment

and bring down a curse upon my vanity

I am carrion.

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.

Ouch. Acedia

Ouch. Poem.jpg

Faraway forgotten weeds,

their tendrils in a wasteland

of spectral hope

seek faith to confront the fear

which plays a game of ‘touch and go’

in each brave spirit that yearns

to go into eternal blue

which is only a harps plaintive chord away

immune to loss or gain

In the mirror’s bruised image, a face leaks images of crime

or rapture, though each is a personal view

 erected on a line we perceive as infinity

And so, inertia rankles in that sumptuous dilemma

arrested in pursuit

of the furthest, spreading,

ache of blue.

To Declan. (my surgeon)

To Declan. A poem. I am gone..jpg

My shoulders rounded, I am hunched

As instructed

Facing away from a man

With sharp steel in his hand

The cold eye of that needle

Contains unsentimental fluid

Poised and loaded with the logic

That will take me away

Before long I am gone

Off into a prayer

My ignorance all wrapped

In total and utter surrender

There could be bird-song

For I am tethered to air

Or the soft parting of warm lovers lips

I am gone

Take me and render me

Your clinical skills

Your cold hearted craft

Are now beyond natural law