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

One- Phrase Raven

When the name, emerging from

Gothic candle shadows,

Became familiar,

It all started to

Shuffle into place:

A time, a plot, a face.

The garrulous

Be afraid parrot

Becoming the One-phrase raven.

No surprises there.

So … why am I

Going back to that well?

 

20/6/2013