Where Speed Is Silver

This eternity-dry furnace land
Regularly eating itself for a living;
This bed of suns,
Casual death of Empires,
Bed of suns wrath,
Migrant’s merciless gauntlet.

Djinn-guard grains,
Impossible sky in flaked-rock ground,
So that simple water,
That which you so desperately need –
And, indeed
Can sea-sand-see –
Is just not there
(…and never was!)

Where speed is silver,
Quicker than thought;
Where breath is spent
Before it’s taken …
And resurrection is
A rootless, long dead tree.


Photo from tangledwing.wordpress. com (if any objections to my use of this please contact me, I have no wish to use anything without permissions.)


The Best Fiddlers

The Best Fiddlers

Nailhead moon is a
Soundless, sun-at-night howl;
Goblin airs and spirit winds
Hurry to join the hunt.
Cloudless Victorian-ink sky
Gives no place to hide,
Shrinks violently away
With breathless, boneless
Silent ghost of scream.

There is fear abroad this night,
Be never in doubt –
For the Devil is undoubtedly
Evil incarnate –
But doesn’t he also have
The best fiddlers?


Even When …

The discontent
Of our winter
Slips away;
The spearshake distraction,
Out through the in door –
So swiftly we have to
Concentrate double-hard
To remember why it was –
Like money,
Even when you are careful;
Like love,
Even when you are committed.


The Brightest Apes

January is a time-torn storm,
Roaring vortex doorway of the year;
Watch-storm wizard,
Wind-both-ways blizzard.
The past is new,
The future a fossil;
Flakes of white are
Memories gone and
Those not yet lived.

We stand on the threshold,
Smug, for after all,
We are the brightest apes.
We stamp-dance, fret or weep
Like small children,
Powerless, startled and chilled;
A little a-feared,
Over-faced, overawed and overwhelmed:
The brightest apes,
the most intelligent fools.


She Thinks She has …

In the hightower spotlight,
Snow and rock falling past
Once blonde hair onto
Slim, bare shouldres.
She has her own garbage can booked
In a special, reserved corner of hell;
But that must wait.

It’s not about history,
However impressive, it’s
About now, the show,
Adrenaline and the
Ten thousand points of light …
The ones many people never see.

When the fork-tailed
‘phistpheles angel comes,
No doubt, she’ll struggle, cry,
Plead, argue, go
For his damned eyes,
With broken nails and all
The spite she thinks she has.

But, she made a deal,
Is fine with that,
And between now and then
She’ll pay for powder,
Devour the music,
Give the naked fool everything,
Everything he thinks he needs.


Dawn’s Light

Hunters become devout pilgrims,
Travelling with deepwater- placid dedication.
Vultures as prophets soar.
Side by hot bodied side,
In cold ocean tide,
We measure our histories,
Play, or not,
Our courts and cards.
Dawn’s light will, anyway,
Cast us as rivals, losers or lovers.

If everything here seems upside down,
The sun too hot,
The days too long;
Somewhere else, have never a doubt,
It will be just right,
The rocks will be ice,
The children fed.


Waiting for the World

Waiting for the bell –
The inevitable bell –
To ring.
Not the bell that starts the
“Seconds out!” action,
The bell
To tell me
I can’t make money.

Waiting for the call
To come,
The call that means
I am not wanted.
Waiting for the message,
The subtle-strong words
Being formed
That start, surely-softly,
To strangle my
Innocent soul.

Waiting for the day to dawn,
The day when I am worth
Less than half of nothing…

Waiting for the world
To wake;
The world that,
Simply, cannot
See me.


It Was Purity

So many pleasant distractions:
The long-game, slow motion
Winter-flake firework spectacular;
The startled blackbird cock
Erupting from bridleway hoofprint …
The witch-finger icicles
Depending from cathedral gargoyles.

Now, white time presses –
That which was innocence before –
Now crowds us, impatiently, brutally;
Demanding answer without
Grace to think upon the puzzle:
Should we trust the
Glass falsehood that
Was yesterday’s road?

This cold savagery blinds us
In more ways than we can see;
It was purity, now it’s jealousy.
We looked to it for enlightenment
But found only intolerance’
Blank prescription.


Sad Arrow

Sad arrow rips
Feather fall from
Heavens; my heart is a
Lead-skin, slow drum.
Ghost-lit snow has
Settled on the stream:
Concealing all we
Thought we knew,
All we thought we had,
Or had dealt with;
No signs of the past –
The water under the
Monochrome bridge –
Of what we held to be
The future, so foolish-confident
It seems from here,
From now –
If it existed at all –
There is no sign.

Every winter-heavy step I take
Away from her is
A kiss, a caress
I will never feel.

It doesn’t always pay
To trust the truth
Or to doubt the trust.