My amour-plated heart

My amour-plated heart. pic

 

I am curious in a casual way

to enquire within

to knock at the door behind which

failed space and ruins lurk in shrouds

grief looms and guilt skitters not being quite

so apologetic

and if I were to enter in

would I trip and drown in tears spilt of love

lost in the commonwealth of desire sold short

the skirting boards and rough hewn timber prone

to splinter; a sea then, of waste and recrimination

and having entered in

would I seek solace in quiet things like thoughts or prayer

to unberth me from  the quay so that I could float

on principals and occupy untainted  air

to be a visitor, a welcome guest treading on the hearth

and be comfortable contained within the walls

and would I, so ensconced

be able to declare my love unflinchingly

offering up the dregs along with the spoons

and silverware; could I admit to all of it

and  suffer my lips to say- I love you?

After Mother’s Day

After Mother's Day. pic

 

in the quiet familiar room

fat, wet jewels sit on the glass above

like buddha’s  through which I see a grey monotony

 

this augurs ill for progress

as it shines reluctant light

on half formed plans

 

and silence clings at the contours

of the view from here

as the horizon yawns, mock idle, sucking me in

 

and there is so much to do

to overcome the apathy

and out-pace inertia

 

to dispel the dank encouragement

of dismal

and light the fuse

for new ambitions

Tips on self-improvement

I'll keep an eye on you

 

eradicate – eradicate

Dalek like they make

shots at redemption

identify – identify

those areas at risk

make clean sweeps

I have a plan

I’ll adopt a mantra

move on and grow

but I wonder

because I have been fit

but fit for what

and  where do the guru’s get their tips and how

do they maintain their virtue

when most of us identify with greed

and watch the news and slide

toward a listless nadir

strung out on disappointments

I’ve heard the exhortations of revivalists

who chant, goggle-eyed and sweating

for us to chase a rainbow

with imprecations to mystify the clogged arteries

and sticky tendons of the unfit

because I have been fit

but fit for what

unleashing desire

spawning acolytes in lycra

trim and taut and virtuous

yet deep down I know

the Dalek shouts to troops

who goose step in unison

along a road I am bound

to meet them on

as such, perhaps, maybe

as such,perhaps,maybe pic for poem

 

invite me in

to your parade of words

let them shine and settle as motes

fairies in a time of gloom

on surfaces that shudder to the touch

let me not go blind to them

though they may be false prophets

let me indulge them

though sloth hangs heavy on it’s threads

 my fingers are lazy

as repentant soldiers that limp slowly

imparting  messages from brain to drain, HQ to sump

and dump everything around the curvature

of the earth

raggedly denying  the cold

that fringe of utterly knowing

and not knowing

the blessed rim, the circumference

of hope

.. to take a leap of faith

Boys at play

 

beyond

imagine it. just beyond

the fledgling on a ledge

deep space beyond and more

that miasma of fear which constricts

every tissue and fibre and

unknowable thing

from taking a leap of faith

 

brother, sister, mother, father, friend

watch over me for I am one

who knows how it feels to stall mid-flight

at that precipice

and court the most unholy thoughts

to allow any manner of darkness in

but in my heart and in my soul

I know I am here because

the ones before me took that leap

they loved me

and I will honour them

Not if nor when nor never then…

 

Not if nor when nor never then... pic

nourished by the sounds they make

I go on

blindly, more in hope than

 with any resolution that could give me strength

 for they seem to rise and fall

with reason

whatever that tidal condition is

and I puff and pant

metaphorically

on the diaphragm of this worlds’

bleeding conscience

never sure whether I have

enough words

to fill the space vacated

by reason

whose box of tricks and verbal tics

confuse me, refuse me

make waste where there was scant

room for loss

and though I am mostly moribund

I have such faith in beauty

like the perennially scorned lover

who draws the line at suicide

I continue to weave in the traffic

of words

trailing in their vapour, their scent

in thrall to an elusive sense

of reason.