Nowhere man

 

Nowhere man. pic for poem

 

a vagrant slouches in the doorway

like a bee fallen softly into apathy

and he glances at a waste bin with shallow contempt

for its dismal offerings and the fanfare of flies

that guard the lurid bounty of spent purchases

so casually tossed away

 

lunch-time in the metropolis and the big game

stroll oblivious to those who lie wounded

their hours of need yawning into a squeezed frame

as his eyes focus on something far away

beyond all this unpleasantness,  just like the bee,

quiet before the fall into a long silence

recurrence

Recurrence. pic for poem.

 

what price all this useless beauty

when dreams recall

the drowning man

in folded blankets

and how the dark recoils

in strangled places

exposing flaws

on naked skin

and whispers shout

with mocking sounds

behind closed doors

in deep, deep wells

so only now

one might feel

euphoria

closing in

Utterances

Utterances. pic

 

as we speak

we cling like partners in a dance

to our very own alphabet

drawn tight by desire

and we would, if we could

make a frieze of the trick

of language

 

the swollen air we launch in speech

is full of gifts

and on reflection it is sad

that so many are returned unheard

in the transmission of loss

that only time

in its wise fractions can attest

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

How sad

How sad. pic

How sad

the ego clings to the fringes

of what is left

remembering in the pallid glow of reality

that the past was a better place

invested with the best of memories

still electric, still with the power to pull

old bones with their cloak of decaying cells

onto the back of an old motor bike

and ride, demented, without a helmet

into the wall of some past glories

How sad

that the epitaph may be spoiled

if the truth came out

that vanity was the ultimate fuel

and not a single prayer for peace

that split skin and blood

were attended to in the urgent blue

of flashing lights

and trained hands transferred the body

to a bed in a place that was

not home

How sad.

patient

Patient

like an atom adrift

in this vast body of parts

failing somehow

and all gathered because

one clock was an hour behind

another advanced by the same amount

‘nil by mouth’

time becomes obstinate

a mocking chant

not that of monks

no abeyance to humility

because the institution grinds away

at those within

with a remorseless appetite

habitually uncouth

and promising, always promising

an outcome. A deliverance.