Ironbridge.

Work-a-day sun high burnin’

Growin’ dull, respectful red and cider-cold;

Dawn’s melody slowly turnin’

Becoming familiar, restful, old.

Harvest hopes answered

Ripening to warm-honey gold:

English: The Ironbridge

Friends will always know each other –

If their stories be honestly told –

That  distance and language matter not

When time and hearts be weighed and sold.

30/7/2013

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Blue Passion’s Clock

In hot-collision darkness

Different manners rule the

Blue-passion’s clock.

Cliffhawk-pirate’s daughter

Has the look of sinful-fire

And warm honey-danger romancer,

Bubble rim and flute-scream dancer.

Who says we can’t be

Snake and heart,

Rock and roll fools

For the night hours –

Bruised lips,

Trembling, burning hips –

And innocent-clean souls

For tomorrow’s changed light ?

 

30/7/2013

 

No Tomorrow-Chains.

So much sun-on-butterfly-wing colour here;

Princess on the table.

“No strings,” she begs, “let there be

No tomorrow-chains.

I’m asking for nothing more

Than one night’s freedom skies;

Perhaps a whole lot more

Than you dare promise …

But, before you shake your head,

Hear this: I am willing

To accept your lies

But you have to be convincing.”

Distances and Depths.

whale

How easily, lazily, deliciously languorously

the surface-basking leviathan exhales

This skybridge to isolation futures

In the low-swell tropics to doldrums

Dreamtime sea.

I’m stranded, every which way,

Whatever I do, on this island’s

Desolation rainbow waters;

Cut loose, cast adrift:

Tranced, mazed and drawn by fascinations

Beyond the comfortable, familiar shallows …

But dreadful feared of the

Tides, depths and distances that are coming.

28/7/2013

 

Photo: http://www.lebanontimes.com/moby-trick-fire-breathing-whale-creates-spectacular-optical-illusion-in-the-sunset-sky/

Listening to the Stones

Hearing things now

I jus’ ain’t  never heard before;

Hearing so clearly a groove from

A different engine room –

A little to the right of the melody, a

Moonshine young-hat guy with

A tote sack full o’

Sun-warm laburnum honey,

Midnight bone soup ‘n’

Lou’siana-swamp soul

Is blowin’ horn so cat -cool ‘n’

Chain maker heavy that it

Must be jerkin the fallen angel’s strings.

How did I never hear it before:

This rollin’ sugar-brown smoothness?

The tune that’s bringin’ it all

Back home to me now:

Across the missin’ years.

27/7/2013

The Currency of Clowns.

Small, frail shapes

Flitting,

Cursor fast

And confident:

Through woodbine tunnels

In the elf-shine hours, navigating

Between moon nectar cups

 And scent promise blossoms.

Stakes are mortality-high

But the brief-held prize Is so,

So gloriously worth it

That resistance is the

Currency of clowns.

The gods who created moths

Never intended them to

Grow old and feeble.

MothsAtNight72

 

Image: www.jennacartwright.com

26/7/2013

Portrait of the Poet

As night’s new choreographed clouds

Roll in and over me

I’m sitting, again,

Whole but alone again

In borrowed skin

Beneath a tree that struggles

To fit beneath the sky.

Between a warm metal heron and

A broken kitchen chair leg

I’m stabbing craziness onto

Poorly seen, second use paper

By stuttering light of gutter candles

With stubborn fingers and a

Well-chewed crayon stub.

Not everything has changed.

Not everything needs to.

25/7/2013