Hello, again

Hello

 

come find me passion

maraud across my open spaces

my steppes, swept and dried

tinged and longing for

infinity

where an echo is out-run

where lines are drawn and forgotten

like desire that apes only

the very best moments.

All definition and certainty

subsumed in the haste

to consume a lavish meal.

drowned and spent

The residue. A crust

a lost love affair,

all misty

and so I go

to each new day

an addition. a loss, a stroke

an explosion of now.

Big Top

Big Top. pic

 

other people’s encampments, their pleasure zones, for once,

are not off-limits or out of bounds

Their gaudy fare and pick-pockets mix with those types who

sport tattoos, chew gum and wear flamboyant  facial hair

The otherness of it all, the pornography of colour and sound

and everything somehow beyond confession as if it was

all dressed up in the dark so pleasure and sin can be

made thrilling in the anonymity of shared experience

 

Those minstrels come to town in wagons and caravans

that seem to be beyond normal law

Charlatans with soft toys and goldfish they would sell as gifts

All gaudy hostages in transit, into whose misfortune we become

complicit

The ground itself a crime scene. Innocent lush grass crushed

not just once but an entire Village Green, a sacred space, sacrificed

to organs and screams. And then it’s gone

The Circus woven and spun into and out of itself

The Big Top, fascinatingly,  moving on and leaving me with

distorted visions in vanishing hub caps

my soiled prurience intact,  until they roll into town again

White Out

White Out. Pic for poem

 

Look

how they glide on an ocean

those stick-men and women in suspense

on  surrendered snowflakes

so demure

they abase themselves to blades,

their pressure, cutting swathes

in arcs. A ballet for butchers

Those slopes. No place for feint hearts

for those that can, will, take a tilt at heaven

and those that can’t will tumble

on the  white-down drawn tight

as a sheet raised around the mountain’s flank

in that rare air

accentuating the blue above

Below, in the cleave of the valley

patience waits for spring

to draw down the melt and wash away

the lost and lingering shapes

their whispers and screams

their murmurs, echoes and endearments

as colours regain the heights

A virgin’s flight complete

Commute

Commute

Commute

The image bleeds

Hard glass distorts

Reflections of captivity

Homeward bound

The eyes beseech

Visions of distorted hope

But this will pass

And comfort close around

Their aching thirst

A time-table dictates this

The lost and found

Journeys on a merry go round

Feet will accelerate to meet

Impatient minds

Hungry with anticipation

And the train will cause to move

Reflections that scrape and slide

On glass that carries a parting kiss

Absence. #Nationalpoetryday

Absence

Absence

Absence

 

Every day. A call to arms

Such devotion. Such energy

Oh how I wish that this

Would all come naturally

Without prompts, self-doubt, recrimination

For I am so transparent

So wanting. So close to the wounds

Of a life that slips inexorably by

It should be marked. Arrested in flight

And the beauty noted

Pressed between the leaves

Of a book that seals

Filaments and membranes

That contain the essence

Of me

 

But. And this but is big

For clarity to put a sheen on the scene

We must be immersed

In the life of the soul

And take a keen interest

In just how much we can give away

Like a smile or a hug

When indifference would normally win

Because we are casual. Thoughts slip

Best intentions drift. Sink in the ooze

Of  footprints left in migratory soil