September 17, 2012 § Leave a comment
The ripping and tearing
Of another one lost
Another soldier down
Jealous of the release
Of the relief
Of being free on the tide that carries hopeful ships to sea
Mourning the passing of people not dead
Lost though, gone for good
Or gone for bad, gone for worse
There is only quiet here now
Low, deep loss of laughter and light
Meaning ever dwindling and decaying quicker than we were ready for
It’s not the betrayal
The leaving of kin
It’s the empty flatness of dreams half lived and lives interrupted
We sigh and breathe and drink and die little deaths
Little, inconsequential deaths that no one could see but us
A lost limb
Not coming back
Always fighting for a world that never seems nearer
No matter how hard we throw ourselves at the bars
That brought us joy
That fed the hope
But now leaves that sour taste in our mouths – like old pennies
and the blood we licked from our wounds
September 12, 2012 § Leave a comment
There’s nothing commonplace here.
This commonplace notebook,
bound in ashy card and lined with blurred red.
It’s not so commonplace at all.
Is the mud commonplace, that puts forth new shoots of Spring,
and feeds the hungry mouths
that stoop to seek their sustenance?
No, not so commonplace.
And here is the sea,
awash with thought and alive in dreaming.
Fall in, be curdled by the riptide and buffeted by the bluster
as nightly thoughts come rushing in.
Not so commonplace I find.
The whale is sleeping, dreaming, drifting.
Buoyant in lights that blind and glitter,
floating in shoals of angelic and dying phosphorescence.
Is that so very commonplace?
And it is there in the library of thoughtful books
that gently age on their sun-warm shelves.
There in the gloaming dim, with its dust motes cascading in golden highways,
leading to that eternal resting bench – on the hill, in June.
No, not at all common place I’d say.
February 15, 2012 § Leave a comment
We perch on mountain tops
Their peaks our crumbled thrones
Though I can barely see your beacon
I feel your breath carried on the west wind
You echo through my caves
Resonating with the rocks
Toppling empires of stalagmites
As you carve a winding path
To the chambers of my heart
In my weather-beaten core, where open veins glisten
Haemorrhaging their precious contents
Your whisper catches an up-draft
And, buffeted by eddies and bluffs,
Spills its tender words over my cold ears
We may seem immobile
Roots planted in shifting aeons beneath our surface
But, though they may not see it,
We march towards each other
A slow dance through time
Crushing every obstacle
That would dare to stand between us.
September 5, 2011 § 1 Comment
The endless light.
The shift of a thousand bodies
crying laughing fucking.
Hot airless corridors strip lit
They huddle over their
hounded out into the bleak
to shuffle their feet
through wet leaves,
inhaling the warm laundry air
pumped through a vent
and into their smoke-blackened lungs.
Will the last vestiges of detergent,
clinging to infinite molecules of moisture
feeble organs, or be rejected with the cool clean air,
to be scattered,
Would that I were away,
dissolved in vapour,
a mere shimmer in the heavy air.
My ceiling hums with the very life that fills this place.
As if too many heartbeats
giving up just one pulse.
I put a finger to my wrist,
and count off the beats
to the rhythm of banging doors,
coughs and futile curses.