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

Park life

The truffle season begins..

 

 

a flare of green in the distance

from a high-viz jacket across the park

the smell of cattle, somehow sweet, carried like a vesper on

the air

and on the path a mushroom sprouts amongst the fallen leaves

all of these are clues to change

now that summer must relinquish its warmth

to the broad shoulders of another season

and we, the passengers, would do well

to witness the changing mood and prepare

for the light to cede it’s power, those lumens,

on shortening days when the sun’s grace is

merely a blown kiss and an ache that lingers

in sweet nothings

I take it in and hope to capture

some of it, some essence, to carry forward to the next time

and the next time

forever greedy for this gift of knowing

that I am small

Reveille

Reveille. Poem

 

my wife curled in her warmth

our shared life in folds

the dog in her basket in repose

at ease in her domain

both supine

this day breaking gently

dull and grey, the lawn fresh mown

I have a cup of tea,  ruled lines and a pen that challenges

the yawning space of a day ahead

eternity safe in perpetual humour

What luxury is this?

 

The faint and pleasant tinkle of water pouring into the fish tank

Our own constructed water-fall seems to murmur in voices

forever in a charmed post-office queue

history and culture coalescing in the democratic act

of buying stamps

repetitions rising and falling in a contented chant

harking now in my mind to halcyon days

of village greens, Bobbies on Beats and buttery yellow daffodils

nostalgia forming a cloak of innocent lies

What is this? A moment of Grace?

I must remember. This is not a race

and in the end all I ever need to find is gratitude.

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.