Old photograph

Old photograph. pic-001

 

curling as it dries

on the mantelpiece

a resurrection  of our bonds

with tear drops frozen in amber light

as the day closes around everything

I cannot lose

That photograph, a tied knot, endures

as we age and I reminisce

being lured into our shared past

by casual nostalgia

and a fondness for the look in their eyes

 

All this today we share,

built around the ambition to survive,

so now we erect monuments on shelves in our home

in praise of relics,

those souvenirs of love and loss

that betray us as creatures of faith

How bittersweet it is to acknowledge

that all of it is slipping away

unashamedly facing us but somehow,

if I view it right,

complicit in a kind way

that will allow me eventually

to simply surrender and fade away

On Sunday

On Sunday. pic

 

a silhouette, misty cut

in darkness out of light

on the shelf, is night

 

and from the flat body

withholding dreams

eyes see

 

that no star

is a vision beyond recorded light

but the diamond black shine

 

where pinkness

pervades the window pane

making chilly contours

 

in the swollen, gifted glass

that reminds departing souls

that night can hold fire

 

as it descends  slowly below

eyelashes and lids surrendering

to shadows and sleep

Start me up

 

Start me up. pic

 at first light untrammeled by fear

the first thought, that fragile thing

is wary in those first moments

before the day unfurls

into a precious arc like a fisherman’s net,

cast wide;

and it should always be an optimistic sweep

of eyes not yet occluded by doubt

limbs not yet bothered by gravity

and a heart willing to pump

fresh energy to gather-up

the mornings catch

heartfelt. again

heartfelt. again

 

your message was lost

and found. in a puddle

the words you wrote now weep

 

that casual transition

from the heart

became a declaration in the dirt

 

do you know

it means more to me now

forlorn but found

 

because it is blessed

by providence and truth

it survives the wound

 

curling as it dries

on the mantelpiece

a resurrection of our bonds

 

the tear drops frozen in amber light

as the day closes around

everything I cannot lose

a bulletin

abulletin.pic_.poem_

 

dogs in the park shamble in

snow that clings to their fur

in a vanishing jacket of ragged threads

 

one black lab does looping circuits

of the spreading quagmire in search

of a ball so disguised by mud it vanishes

 

deer stalk to a tethered pile of hay

left for them as a staging post

for their ancient rituals in this Royal Park

 

and on the High Street oblivious traffic

is cautious after snow and the evening news

where word has it that speech in Iowa is dangerous

 

whipped to a frenzy by a polar vortex

the wind in North  America

instantly freezes boiling water

 

by ‘eck, I wonder what my family

in Cumbria make of it

a ‘breeze’ to them I shouldn’t wonder

a night at the theatre

a night at the theatre. pic

 

I careened through narrow streets

in the darkest of Piccadilly and Soho nights

in ramshackle pursuit of a sea captain

while under my arm I struggled to carry a mattress

and all the time I knew it was absurd

but I kept up a dialogue with him, remonstrating

and arguing with the crew about why and how

he had parked his ship so close

to my car and blocked me in

 

Awake I am left with the residue

of confusion

and amazed at what goes on inside my head

when the day-shift goes out to play

and all manner of other characters move in

to the theatre of my inventions

that bristle with malevolent energy

to prick my pride and expose

my febrile hold on reality

Looking for tense

looking for tense. pic

 

I sit on the fringes and think

that’s my problem

I try too hard

 

all the letters dance untamed

taunting me, as a Lion resists

it’s tamer

 

and in this circus of wills

under the dome and ropes

of a tent that exaggerates

 

each small loss of authority

until I am left spitting

uncouth fragments of the alphabet

 

at the mighty beast

I have imagined as a metaphor

in this ring of despair