These Rooms

These room. photograph

breathe honesty through pain

assemble despite craving

and are drawn to communicate

with a fierce resolve

that bares it’s face

to sinews and contours laid bare

in past shame. self pity. arrogance.

shyness hides deception

in that mask which enables carnage

and yet each day

new recruits file in

and face cracked mirrors

in humble places

that ask only for truth

and bear witness, sometimes

to a craving

for redemption

for love and peace

that lies bleeding and torn

in memories that stink.

These rooms offer

an unassuming refuge

for bodies and minds

that are willing.

Castaway

Castaway

I am sat

stark naked on a sunday morning

reviewing the dark past,

and stewing

with those tangled, escaping memories

over my part in all of that.

And on a blank sheet of paper,

white, beside me, waiting, innocent,

a pubic hair.

Insouciant. Detached from me

lazing absently

Laughing at incongruity.

bye bye man

bye bye man

under a black felt brim

eyes dark with a candour

that have seen all manner of things

wonder whether they should plead

for clemency or a piece of that notion

that compassion will cure all ills

for in that stare so many fires

have withered on coals

raked over and left cooling till

soft grey ash is swept up on murmurs of

casual air

those whispered endearments

and promises that sustain a heart

that wishes to pump more

than just blood

around the ache of desire

He knows in there

there is no room for mercy

for justice will be implacable

His day is up

and so

under that felt overhang

he has already gone

On the verge

On the verge.

Would beauty do?

Alone amongst the gristle of the everyday

A poppy waves not red but orange

On a supple stalk that eeks succour

From a brutal verge

A nondescript suburban highway

Cuts gradients and shapes

The enforced conformity of progress

Into vectors that cars and lorries

Stamp upon

Yet on the side

Emerging from the shoulders of a mole

Crusty pellets of dry earth

Sustain that orange flag

Defiantly romantic. Almost carefree

A splash of colour

Raising hope on a flag-pole

Against the dirty clamour

Of so many imagined goals

Softens the view

Prize fighter

Prize fighter

Prize fighter

 

 

 

Everything suggests that I am late

The memory, the notes on soiled paper

Remorse and nagging doubt

 

My skin and my eyes. My hair

All indicate that things have changed

And I am shocked!

 

Picture books hold vestiges

Of my fading self

That I open now with caution

 

So where has the locomotion

Of all my life

Been hiding. In which siding?

 

For all the guides. Almanacs

The legends told

I am not familiar with them all

 

A shadow falls

Stooped in changing light

And fleetingly is all of me.

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

Immersion

Drown softly in your learning

Drown softly in your learning

 

Let me fall into your rhythm

To sleep-walk in your  form

Absorb your very nature

And be so patient

That something will occur

A wash. A kiss

The soft breath of concern

Gifted like a glove and fist

That have found peace

Confused by mercy

So harmony might take residence

In common sense

And the rise and fall

In the chest

Of any sentient man