Some of The Ropes and Chains

Image result for image storm

Every storm has a quiet cradle:

A cell in which I can sit with myself and my shadow;

Rain and wind are doubtless a-coming

But before the tempest noise stirs

We get to read between such lines as we can see.

I look through my own eyes – in these moments –

And into my own eyes, seeing beyond, behind.

We’ve started some big fires to get here,

Jumped into and over others, it’s true

And, after this latest hurricane has

Passed and done some damage

We’ll enjoy a summer garden again.

Yet I cannot escape the feeling that I’ve

Let go of some of the ropes and chains

That have anchored  me

To the valuable past.

And it frightens me.

 

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.

First, the Arriving …

From the fog,

From the foam;

First, the arriving,

Then the striving –

Get it right,

Keep it tight –

On the roads,

On the ropes.

Between the round one corner

And the canvas

Is nothing more than physical pain.

Why so worried ?

13/4/2013

Done

“Home,” sighed the captain;
One quiet word, on
The edge of the outbreath:
“Home,” a wish-whisper prayer.
And, fatigued, we cut
Ourselves free of the
Toil, toil nets,
The hook, hook ropes;
Turned our backs on
Long-wave whale roads,
Aurora sewn skies;
Opposed the route the
Miserable creature
(Monster-to-some) took.
We are done – again –
With the north.
“Home,” the captain sighed.

trawler

Photo source: http://www.mikes-place.connectfree.co.uk

8/2/2013