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.

A rider on the swells

A rider on the swells

A rider on the swells

So the poet in me speaks

Is this an accretion of sighs?

Or has today given me spoils,

an accretion of smiles?

I am forever riding the crests of waves

Being sucked under and below

Roiling back and forth

On an incessant tide

That rides with a roar

And recedes with a screech

Leaving me naked

Abraded by events and thoughts

That linger or are lost

Are careless with me

Posing questions

Leaving a little occasional wisdom

On the simpering callousness of life

Or the warm glow of love

I am the given. I shall not resist

Though hark at me

When so many souls are perishing at sea.

Those Random Fields

Those Random Fields

Those random fields

 

The poppies. Luscious red on stalks

In patches. Risen because memory

And a reservoir of love

Deeply held, compels us to plant

The seeds of future hope

And to mark with a beautiful stain

Acknowledgement of desperate human wrongs

That random beauty

From guerrilla planting

We savages come across

And see a whisper

A visual clue

That one hundred years ago

The moans of men

Are not forgotten in soil

Where red remembers

Passion spent

Where sentries speak

That whispered lament

So. Softly go.