Of All People

The little man, from the

Poorer side of Handsome Street,

Is on the screen again:

Twice framed and

Wondering how that happened

To him of all people.

I don’t know the young strangers

Bustling, full of spring’s nervous energy,

At the table next to mine.

Nobody is here from the Sad Cafe

And

Nobody is fleeing fire

This week.

Into Paradise.

That compulsive ostinato challenge

Beneath steady tide-cadenced

Heart-rhythm heat-beat, heat-beat.

The little rising thrill,

Trill-gathering power,

Flinging itself with and against

The flood wave’s hunger.

Crash!

Then again;

Suddenly released;

No longer in opposition

They soar, soar

As they were always meant to –

As one.

Beyond meaning

Into paradise flames.

A big well-done to anybody who “had a go” at this poem a day stunt.
take a breath or two …
but keep writing!

 

 

Does Anybody ?

DSC03269

 

Was it only me

That noticed?

Did you notice?

Did anybody notice

That there’s nowt to notice

On the notice board?

That there’s been

Nowt to notice

On the notice board

For longer than the committee

Would care to notice ?

-Since they moved it into the hedgerow

So that people would notice.

The notice board is notice free;

Been no notices since

Two thousand and three.

If people noticed this

Lack of notices,

They may have stopped noticing

The notice board at all;

Maybe you’ve noticed

That nobody, these days,

Notices.

Or is it only me

That notices?

All You Get Back …

Comes a time

When the trees, like the clouds,

The waves, the mountains

No longer answer your questions.

leastwise if they do –

You cannot hear,

Or make sense, of them.

Doesn’t mean you have to

Stop asking,

Or give up all faith.

But, surely, when all

You get back is silence

You need to realise

It’s time to start to

Work it out for yourself.

Tryin’

Tryin’ to get some slack,

Free my brain,

Make livin’ jus’

A little less rough:

No easy task, trus’ me now,

On labour’s Boredom Road.

On my way home from

The needle factory;

Prospects gone like

Mice in a cat’s home.

Eased back, took a drag.

Watched the clouds doin’

Their eternal calc’lation dances:

Mapping the atmosphere, assessing

The differences, shiftin’ shapes,

Tradin’ energies, motherin’

The winds, sketchin’ the seasons,

Stretchin’ time.

 

Such A Storm … NaPoriMo, day 26.

Such a storm is brewing

That will shake the faith of priests,

Move mountains, leave

Devastation’s awe behind.

See the unholy bruise-glow pressure

Build over the Marches, the

Shark bellied cloud roil and

Press on new-leaved oaks.

Such a tempest will first be hot, dry,

Then by degree cold and soul-deep damp;

Whose winds will lift thatch, the wings of ravens

That perch on funeral long-ship sails.

There will be crackle-snake lightnings

That lick the belladonna crevasses of nimbus,

Bend the prayers of fearful mortals and

resound  down the throats of

All the Hells that have ever been.

Such gales that will shift landmarks, so that

New dawn locals stupefied and stunned by the clamour

And new landscape will be witless:

“Where is the henge?”

“Where the mill?”

Roads will be sundered,

Valleys filled with split rocks and earth

As the very hills seek to fill up the cave – ears.

Nothing will be as it was;

Points will have been made,

The unworthy reduced to gibbering wrecks

(Aren’t we all, anyway,

Just the fifty shades of clay?)

Those that stand staunch, resolute,

Through what is approaching, as if

From the deranged cells of

Twisted-by-jealousy Heracles’ mind

Will deserve their places

On the pantheon.

Slave ?

Image result for slave

She is wholly mine

To command,

To define;

She wouldn’t have it any other way.

When I take her

– My time, my place – she

Responds, so fantasy-easy and willing,

To my every whim: heavy restraint, whip,

Silken hood, smeared with honey,

Blindfolded, costumed.

She mews, smiles; in turns quiet,

Banshee, submissive, giving.

Whatever I would she takes it,

Makes it wholesome.

She will never forsake …

Who am I fooling?

She is my sometime April muse

And will soon be gone like

May morn frosts.