whispers

whispers. pic

 

the voice is

a stretch

a cord, a line

not taut it spans time

it is a lament

unfolding from the quay

a ship’s hawser, thick fibres worn

uncoiling under pressure

an umbilical cord still intact

calling soft murmurs that echo

in the cave of a living history

and metaphors are all we have

for loss

the voice is

a cord, a line

a semblance of everything

that was ever mine

lost in darkness

even lost in smiles

the learned lies

the unnecessary loss

and grief

burning spires, artefacts

rust on beauty

and the death of stars

which has all been the daily news

on a loop that is

my loop and

the voice is

a stretch

a cord, a line

New day

New day. pic for poem.jpg

 

dried aromatic fruit in a bowl,

listlessly emits a fragrance

it’s yellow lemon slices lay down and serve

a purpose, throwing us off the scent

of household smells, the settling of history into fabrics

into carpets coated with the travellings of family life

the pets and children, friends and villains that

transmit the dirt and odours of the everyday

and I sit here with it’s feint smell

and wonder if it helps

 

I am naked and waiting for the day

to unfold

should I wait? should I press play?

will this not be like any other day

such quandaries are defining moments as I drift in space

the small and incidental bits most easily forgotten

become a personal history

My aim?

for it not to turn to grief. to potpourri.

Avoidance

Avoidance. Pic for poem

 

The dogs and their owners

smudges on this horizon are

just beyond the range of a call,

an imprecation to obey or

small-talk, that tittle-tattle

of the lonely

as the air they share in a conspiracy

of mounting grief

is just contained in pleasantries

 

I bear left and implore my dog

to follow suit

lest I am drawn-in to the oblivion

of chatter

for we are all, just, recognizable ciphers

in this space

So I duck between hedges that gape

with tired acceptance of this constant intrusion ( escape)

into another field and the welcome glare

 

of solitude

Two worlds separated by nothing much

A resentment perhaps. An irritation on the surface

of another, deeper disquiet

but that still and graven distance is like

the comfort of death

when knowing it all means

nothing at all