Shiftin’ Gear

A little grey

In the heart and beard,

Big rig pilot rides

Whispering thunder across

Lonely sage-and-snow plains:

As always,

Shiftin’ gear,

Pushing calendar promises

And clock’s ransom demands;

Wry smile lights up the face

As the tune chnages

“Pretty woman, plain woman

Tellin’ a lie

Is just a signal

For the sky

To cry.”

 

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Insomnia

After Mercy’s wine-sweet twelve,

There’s insistent, chain-gang

Routine-carousel one again.

The roads, skies and

Melody-hung rivers

Pour their silver,

Sinful invitations into

My reluctant-to-ignore ears.

The moon and the rainbow,

Still as distant  as they

Ever were.

Tickets, Clocks and …

Shades of

Four-in-the-morning

Friendship roads;

Sagas and riverbank coffees,

The long warm shadows of wings;

With tickets, clocks, cherrywood smoke,

A softly-strummed guitar

And new plum wine.

Nothing wrong with visiting the past,

Living in the moment:

But Tomorrow

Will be calling –

Sooner than you think –

So be sure you have

The proper words.

9/8/2013

The Church of Clocks

Restless are the

Seas and sands of time:

Tidespun and windworked

Lines of invested time.

Ever faster the full moon

leaps the mortal  fences.

I laugh now to think

How devoutly I avoided

Crossing the cathedral threshold

That leads to the Church of Clocks;

Ignored the insidious drip-tock-drop –

Thinking I was being somehow brave –

The doors that closed,

The ones we didn’t see.

Why did it take so long to realise

That our bodies are merely pins

Mercilessly nailing our want-away shadows

To the dry, stinking mud?

 

23/5/2013