Without

This is a night to call on

The neglected-too-long,

Two faced god;

Distant doorways time,

Wandering with the wide-sky

As a hat, deep dark and

Glamourous with frost-pricked stars

That will refuse to disclose the

Futures only they can know.

Walking on the tireless long legs of Memory,

Carrying my weightless ghosts around

The rainbow’d edges of the friendship nation:

Territory with secrets,

Without hiding places,

Without borders.

Abandoning …

Surrounded by the senior-sweet sound

Of memory’s belles, solitary man

Smiles, ankle-fogged, in the last-second avenue.

Miles have been travailed, promises kept.

Above him, reflected in truth-deep eyes

The traditional gunpowder trickery traces

Annual, flash- fast chemical lies

Across the change of year clouded skies.

He has walked with villains, heroes, ghosts

And the closest of friends; is here,

Momentarily abandoning habitual restlessness

To show proper respect, to honour the past.

For the future coming will test wits and will

But may also bring health and new adventure.

The Winds Have Changed …

Muck, Line and Thinker

If I were human (great lumbering brutes that they are) …

If I had human language, calculated time like a human –

Took it for granted like a human –

Then this would be

2015,

Mid-September

End of summer,

Autumn creeping in …

If I were human,

Thought as one of them,

Named things in the

Ridiculous, disinterested way they do

(Then having catalogued it, so casual dismissive

Let it go) …

I would be

Butterfly.

Image result for butterfly u.k.

I have known vast expanses of colour,

Winged, gloriously anonymously over them,

Drinking in perfumes and nectar

Gorged myself

On treasures offered

Thinking not of the past day

Never mind past lives

(Though the sugars I digest

Drive me forward, impetuous, impatient

And make fairy grasshoppers of my memories

I believe I may be dimly aware

That I existed before:

But that is so, so unimportant

And I have neither need

Nor call to…

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Distraction and Disguise

Rainbow flames its brief bridge

Of blazing colours across the April sky;

Sharp showers, darts of cold air.

From up here, atop one-time

Old Howe Ridge, long-time ago home,

Site of ancient farm and a school

That educated all and the one

It is impossible to see the distant,

Grey-cloud blanketed city in its role as

Industrialised, scarred prostitute.

Distance and spring rain are

Distraction and disguise.

We travelled between

Historic limes to get here:

An avenue where, much later,

Joyous wights will chance the

Wedding gambler’s dance.

 

Image:twistedsifter.com

Rough Touch Ropes

I have seen many

Such as he;

Beribboned costume

(More clown than ringmaster),

Cat-of-Cheshire smile,

Loud voice that

Carries no authority.

Yet he will say,

He has borne the sword

From cold fields

To these strewn-with-paper tiles.

I am, perhaps, too used to keeping

Rough-touch ropes tight around

Memories that would otherwise

Have me vulnerable, weeping, cold.

Too used to resisting the

Smith’d-of-gold poisons;

To watching too,

Too many young people

Take their too-soon leaves.

Sting.

I don’t, in all honesty,

Want you to know …

But it took all of my wind

‘n’ most of my reserves

To get this wonderful-high.

Though I don’t want to confess –

I think you should know that

I’m not sure how long I can stay

On top, calm, collected

Up here where everything

Edges ecstasy’s borders.

There are dark greys,

Overlapping distant lights

Between the there

That was us setting out

And the here that is now.

Experience, like ambition, can sting

Like a silver hornet

If you let it; euthanase all emotion;

Yet I am here again,

For the first time,

Knocking knuckles on the

High-pressure door.

Don’t make me beg …