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 …

Gypsy

Gypsy sits the

Spaces between the winds;

Possessing the means

But, for the moment,

Getting no message.

Surrounded by the busy fools

Whose lives are ruled by iron,

That join the same redundant lines,

Piling day onto day,

Turning golden time

Into heavy lead.

Gypsy sits the winds

Between the spaces.

No Challenge.

 

So far away,

Yet close enough,

Those northern mountains

Of the young-spring moon

Hide us well –

My wolf brother and I .

Sixteen horses?

So few?

Five times that

Would be no challenge.

Hear our voices,

Between the

Wind and thunder,

In the bear-claw nighthours.

I was here:

Know my name

In The Moment

Big red-sun pulley has

Been lowered behind

The stiff horizon;

Last-echo wonder-filled

Songbird-flute phrase

Is held, suspended,

In the still-star air.

Somewhere a cash-johnny train

Rolls away to some distant

Coyote-wail otherworldville.

I am in the  lizzy-thin,

Emerald and cowboy moment:

Listening to companionable

Words from orange, high-flame fire;

The mother-calm breathing of the earth:

In, hold and out.

 

19/6/2013

  • Coyote (raveng7.wordpress.com)
  • Inertia (sevinius.wordpress.com)

A Different Pulse.

High, clean wind;

Low-tide water.

here we are,

Walking a thin, hopeful

Line of bare-fertile soil

Between the shore

And Heaven;

Piling smooth stones

One atop the other –

On bedrock –

To hold the

Coming storms away:

Feeling a

Different pulse.

 

15/6/2013

Smoke-Music

 

Sometimes

I take  smoke-music

With my changing landscapes;

Melodies seamlessly stitching

History and present paths

Together.

 

Sometimes

I prefer simple- silence

For my reflections;

It helps me

Put the clouds back

Where they belong.

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