the eye’s have it

An eyefull

 

a wet monday in Worthing when

drab describes it all – like a squall

the pavement leaden but moist

with a sheen that mourns this day

 

the silk trace of rain resembling a worn mirror

reluctant to record the scene

so I kill time as I wait for my car

to be serviced in a franchise on the edge of town

 

here, I am a tourist on the fringe

of this island I am bound to call my home

the sea, a shifting slate graunching at the shingle

of a beach demarcated by groynes

 

that limp out into temperamental water

barnacles and slime worn into their weathered timber –

they are the nerve endings on the fringe

constantly mocked by tides that respond only to

 

higher pulses that have no remorse for

that hang-dog,  beaten look they leave behind

for tourists and thrill seekers, the off-peak

and the lost and lonely on the beach

 

and in all of this I try to find a common thread

imagining workers behind glass and steel

bricked-up and buoyed by duty and the hours

that pay a mortgage – that make it all seem safe

 

I feel small amongst the flotsam of people with

less pressing concerns as they shuffle

on quiet streets that promise things

like Prospect Place or maybe even Paradise ( a square)?

 

in shops Closing Down with only ‘days to go’

I feel the loss of blood, a dilute imperative

the eking out of time as the air goes out

of a blessing that was once filled with hope

Longing

Chess Mates. I have this sense of impending doom.

 

day by day

the long column

of little steps

ascends, as if

 

no greater power could command

nor small urge arrest

the strident pattern

of controlled desire

 

while sleep conceals

the gnawing pang

daylight reveals the currents

that play with a pain

 

no two thoughts can unwind

without a third that questions

sweet reason

with a sneer

 

and so we live in danger

here and now

and cite past treason

to re-affirm weakness, as if

 

derision was the message

on a welcome mat

as we attempt

to douse the fire

 

and put quiet to bed

the questions

that linger in the threads

and fabric of scented pillows

 

 

so,  sleep well with demons

children please

your softly moulded bodies lay limp

without due diligence

 

as those dreams fade

mutate

and pass into a troubled, yet

forgotten history

fractions

Big window

 

at a fallen moment

I stop

to wonder where

that fraction went

before it came to rest

which brings me to

serendipity

and what I understand of that

how the obvious will stare

straight at me in its naked state

unashamed and proud to bare

a gift, a threat

a thought to dare

that might expose me for what I am

and leave me aghast

staring at solid air

and another chance at risk

to be still and accentuate the moment

and  drown

in you

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

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

we are stalled

 

we are stalled. pic for poem

as we look for change

that would not blight the small things

those things that are peripheral

like coins that fail to amount to much and disappoint

as lust does in the youth who is still unacquainted with success

in life and love and patience

so we think of puberty and how that changes us

and so on for the sake of it

the leitmotif, tra la, of life

ever in the swell of a slow rolling sea

captives of change where memories and dreams

are fine dust, the diaspora of Angels cast-offs as we

the unbelievers

run in frozen time away from Pompeii

away from the blindness that just won’t go away

The anatomy of moments (the first)

Tne anatomy of moments

 

stars, the shards of a shattered universe

cry, tear drops on a canvas of dreams

we shall never inhabit for they are

just echoes of a time long dead

 

it is all I have

and I have known love

but it is still a gaping

sense of loss

 

my mother’s endless encouragement

a vapour now that she has gone

my wit, my charm, my accomplishments

just crumbs on a well worn floor

 

my love of poetry

an idolatry for the patterns words weave

is always moderated by an X-Ray

that filters through me

 

looking for scar tissue and wounds

that might build a case

for a better model

more robust in the ways of the world

 

but these moments are

refugees in a crisis of confidence

bound in nightmares to roam

in uncertainty

 

programmed to return

wanton with a savage lust

to rent and sunder

where sunlight would prefer to rest.