Questions Without Marks

I feel them all,

These whispers without whispering,

As they rattle secretly -and not -

Around this real-ether world.

We’ve never been face-to-face

Yet, disturbingly, and its opposite

She knows me so well.

There are moments, she says

Without speaking when she hangs

On my words. There are days,

I know when I am held in thrall by

Her brutally innocent intuits:

Questions without marks.

“Were we not more whole,

More in touch, when we respected

Those who commune with serpents?

When we recognised the snake as

Healer rather than nightmare?”

…Were They ?

We are all capable of such extreme,

Easy self-deception,

Such arrogant vanities -

Aren’t we ?

The plain truth was always that

The words which we scratch

With broken-holiday spades,

In drying sand;

The shapes we construct

Between tide and tide;

That we daub so righteously

On the division walls

Or broadcast to the electric winds

Across the wireless world

Were never meant to last!

Or … ?

To Perdition

This night’s lady -

Too casually-chosen perhaps -

So-soon satiated, flutters

Easily between fantasy and sleep. And

I, alone, am conscious, again, of the

Anaconda in the witch-hour bedroom.

The one that seeks the carbon dioxide I exhale,

Brushes  my exposed skin in invisible passing;

Realising that, at long-last, I will be all-out

Of resistance when the judgement-jaws gape and

Fangs fashioned like no-absolution lightning

Lay bare my soul and fasten on my very core, pointing

The way; the only way – to Perdition …

To Perdition – and beyond!

Exhibitio …

Somewhere unseen – tucked away,

Below, behind the artefacts –

 Tiny bulbs that shine forth beams

Of light brighter than small gods

Draw unexpected-shape shadows

All around me: exotic butterfly wings,

Torquemada’s masks, broken pagoda roofs,

Dragon claws; birth thoughts of faith

As they maze floor and walls

With failure portent and treasure promise:

Belittling, mocking, intimidating the observers.

To Light Again

Found in the cold-turn soil:

Just a sod-clamped half of nothing

Corroded scrap-of-metal,

Forged, used, cast away –

Misplaced perhaps – lost  these

Five hundred years and more …

Then brought sudden to light again.

 

“Don’t foul your ears

With the bad they say,

Don’t pass on the vitriol;

For down the lines of

History-gone-to-bed someone

Will plumb the several realities.

Be better if you don’t swallow the

Lies they offer, so glibly, today.”

Commuter?

Through the fast-forward frames

That gentle-rock and carry me homewards

I see familiar – but not – evening shadows

Lying timelessly across harvest-clock fields;

Full leaf crowns of trees that served as masts,

Fuel, trusses, wheel spokes and spear shafts

Lean now on thick, dark hedges

Like off-duty, slightly drunk warders

At the sleepy near-home edges of my day.

Another Breath

For the moment –

Though you and I

Are both the poorer for it –

You are the power

(And don’t we all know it!);

You who shout from the screens,

You who worship the silver.

But we the patient peoples,

Of the Tribes of Trees, know

That this moon will change,

That these tides will turn.

So we pull in another breath,

Turn up our collars

And wait.