Somber swings
a dismal edged guillotine
severing possibility.
t’s a bitter sharp taste to a dream
When prospects are soured by reality.
Somber swings
a dismal edged guillotine
severing possibility.
t’s a bitter sharp taste to a dream
When prospects are soured by reality.
Their laughter trickled in
from the garden.
Fairy light decadent bells
ringing of innocent mischief.
This morn’s wail and tantrums
long since replaced
by joyous squeals and giddiness
so utterly contagious
hearts beam and swell berry ripe,
bulging with the warm
rich boon
that parenthood can often be blessed with.
A lone feather floats
composing a symphony
cadenza for air
Had I known our final walk was to the gallows
I would have counted the steps.
You gave nothing away
no last requests.
The noose looped round my neck;
I leaned to kiss.
Trapdoor released;
you turned from my lips.
I dropped, slipknot tightened;
you delivered the last rights,
“it’s over.”
You left me hanging
when you fled crying like a mourning wife.
She loves me.
She loves me not.
But what of the petals
faith has forgot?
Of those that fell
before the final
plucked prediction,
can one among them
foretell of her heart’s
true conviction?
From a wish
to the wings
of a breath,
to candle’s flicker and
flame’s sudden death,
travelling
smoke trails
transcending
as it dissipates
into the ether
in good faith;
and the wisher
filled with hope,
waits
From the soft pastel fabrics of dawn
to the ghostly hue textiles of twilight
the day dresses solely
for the night.
Poets
are
philosophers
who
sometimes
rhyme.
Her hand rests snug in mine
synchronized fingers slip
into perfect symmetry
of interlocking flesh and bone.
Lightly knuckles fold
an affectionate clamp.
Tips softly caress then settle,
thumbs overlap
crux over hinge.
Her delicate palm,
tender smooth,
lays engulfed upon
my cold slab
weathered, welted, rough worn.
My hand feels older than I
as it guiltily draws warmth
through the touch of her cushioned skin.
The difference balances
as both blend as one
joining in simple physical unity;
the weave our hearts sew.
The sweep of road,
a gradient line
seldom walked.
The stretch of a mile.
Few cars hug the rising bend
in the morning;
by evening
they descend.
And in between the bulk of day
scarce are the travellers
passing that way.
It is there I found myself
sauntering with time to kill,
isolated
upon the wood speckled hill.
A dangling limb of weathered spruce
I snapped off and put to good use.
A gentry gentleman ambling
through his claim
with stick in hand,
a worthy cane.
While not a sinner,
but I,
did walk.
Nor other voice sound,
but chirp and whistle
of birdish talk.
For awhile it belonged
just to me
the hill,
the road,
the birds,
the trees.
Hindsight’s the sister of regret
“What ifs” tease attempts to forget.
Random objects mirror moments of reflection
Dejection’s the brother of rejection.
The perfect someone does exist
it’s our standards that are flawed
Wilting shadows weep for the company of night
lacking comprehension they only exist where there’s light
Just want to say a big THANK YOU to everybody for your very kind support, encouraging words and for taking the plunge on my little book
So, Hugs all round and thank you, again. I really do appreciate it.
all the best and take care
David
I recognise
those tired eyes
with fond recollections
how we made them so
by the lush warmth of the fireside
through the night:
decadent movements.
Oh,
how those eyes and your body glowed.
86,400
seconds in a day,
yet
it took just
three of them
to make mine;
one for every word you said,
“I love you.”
Shhh….
quietly.
Our bodies have missed
each other.
Let’s let them catch up
uninterrupted
Charlock, buttercups, clovers and more
For the lonely,
for the loveless,
for the forgotten and overlooked,
for the discarded and trodden on,
for the neglected,
for the ignored and mocked,
for societies weeds,
for circumstantial weeds.
For you outcasts are weeds
the flowers nobody wants,
but
weeds are resilient.
They persevere where others can not.
Often mistaken for weak, but no,
weeds are strong
and tough enough to break through tonnes of concrete
and metal.
Clever enough to find growth in places
others perish in.
Adaptable to every habitat and
brave enough to exist on barren wasteland.
Weeds need only the tiniest of a chance to flourish
For the unwanted,
for the unclaimed.
You are beautiful.
You are equal to every other flower.
You are the Charlock, the Buttercup, the Clover,
the Pinapple-May-Weed and so much more.
Next time you see a weed by the roadside,
or peeking out from a crack in a wall,
or between paving slabs in a busy city,
or overgrown in a garden,
or weaving through rubble and debris,
take heart
lonely ones.
You are not worthless
You are magnificent.
How to talk of such things
When suitable words make a game of hiding;
verbs and adjectives are not rich enough in describing?
How to speak of such things
When a brittle voice trembles in the mentioning,
Tongue tied trickery trips every uttering,
While throat clench tightly trapping sentences to the point of suffocating?
Who to hear of such things
When guttural grunts are all that come crashing
and gasping breaths are too weak for their releasing
While listeners impatiently tilt heads from my scratchy stuttering?
Who to read of such things,
When the vagueness of text can’t hold true meaning
and impulsive eyes leave print that is boring,
When you can’t fault the font because it is indifferent to what you are attempting?
All the while the essence of a poem is slipping,
opportunity to grasp it is fading
and inspiration waning
The moment wilting
efforts are dying.
We sidestepped the stars and became engulfed with the vast nothingness of space
without which they could not shine.
We avoided roses and carnations and gave ourselves over to the earth from which they sprang.
We ignored the music, but marvelled at the waves of vibration which made sense of the sound.
We shunned the masterpiece, becoming enthralled by the technique which allowed its longevity to be enjoyed.
We spurned the story, but delved into the grammar and structure of every single word.
We spoke not of love, but acted. We cherished each breath shared in between without which there would not be us.
His stomach grovelled for sustenance
His skull rattled like marbles in a spray can
He didn’t dare guess the aftertaste marinating his pallet and tongue
With bladder on the verge of rupture
And eyes aching: blinded my the midday sun
Through the protest of tiredness, he managed to trudged towards the bathroom.
Feet more dragging a slow shuffle upon the cold tiled floor than a proper step.
The disheveled face in the mirror winked back,
“That was the best night yet!”
Come
Walk with me
Let us stroll together, you and I,
Just the two of us,
Away from here for a spell.
Let us link arms, or hold hands, or simply walk
Side by side.
Nowhere too far
Nothing too rigorous
A leisurely step in the open.
No need for words,
But if you wish, let us speak easily,
Honestly
And respectively.
If one should ask an intrusive question
Let the other be quick to forgive
In the understanding it was asked out of care and sincerity.
Or if footfalls should be the only sound between us
We’ll enjoy it for what it is
A ramble
A wander
A friendly saunter.
We can return when you feel it is right
Or if the hour is getting late.
And if you want to continue
I will be with you every step of the way.
Come, my friend,
Let us remind the path why it is there.
For all those who work for the good of scientific advancement
Be it medical, technological or environmental
There are others who claim it is their right to unravel
Any particle that hints of something magical
Can we not hold on to marvel, astonishment, love and aspirations
Or will we always be subjected to their will of research and investigation?
They are bleaching life of its mystery
Mocking wonderment as a child of naivety
They pillage secrets to examine and analyse
Already, they have stolen the beauty of a rainbow
with explanations of atmospheric moisture reflecting the sun’s glow
They dissect, experiment and strive to replicate
The incandescence of the universe in its first spark of a primitive state
They legitimise their reasons under the banner of knowledge
But neglect to recognise the significance of wisdom and morals.
They can pinpoint emotions to electrical discharges of the limbic system
Stripping back basic kindness to the release of endorphins.
But I would rather simply enjoy the sweet fragrance of a carnation
without somebody scrutinising aspects of olfactory senses from the time of creation.
Do we really need to know the intestinal reactions of a slug in an earthquake,
Or the mathematical formula of orange jelly when it is shaking,
Or when you can map the symmetry of a pentagon to facial alignments; in theory its perfection,
Or know the wavelength and frequency of a house-wren’s mating song?
Am I the only one who thinks some things should be allowed their secrecy?
Please do not analyse my thoughts to a sporadic episode in my history.
Abandoned cobwebs left to gather dust.
Draped gossamer rags
Discarded and forgotten with the lost and found
In the cloakroom that is the attic.
Suspended between rafters and roof tiles.
Clinging wistfully from all surfaces
Impartial to texture, shape or purpose.
Plastered vacant traps
More numerous than posters on an adolescent’s bedroom wall.
The minute slipstream of careful movements
Is enough to send the ghostly sails billowing and reaching with spindly strands.
Their constructors crawl silently having cast their carcass net
Prospecting for morsel nuggets,
Struck with goldfeverish hopes of sustenance .
Time and again, they pan their webs into the aphotic streams and
Mines of the Attic.
(The problem with eavesdropping)
We get annoyed when our neighbour’s scream, fight and shout
We get frustrated when we can’t clearly hear what it’s all about
(Tempting faith)
Black leggings stretched beyond design
Snooze button pressed for the third time
Cracking open another bottle of wine
Calling double or nothing while flicking a coin
(Mr Right)
she was looking for Mr. Right
But ended up with Mr. Alright
She left him because it didn’t feel right
There’s no pleasing some people, Right!
Perched on the edge of his seat
Leaning over his knees
His jaw line is busy working
Constantly gnawing teeth
Unconsciously, he spits out insults or encouragements
As his patience is put to the test
His elbows dig deeply
Into the corners of the armrest
His hands nervously clench, and then uncoil
Fingers fidget and flick before fists are recoiled
Several times he began to rise ready to shout and cheer
Several times he disappointingly sunk back down and consoled himself with a swig of beer
Yelling at the TV screen
Expecting the players to hear his point of view
Distraught, he turned to prayer
His team just went down three goals to two
There is still time to turn the game around
If they only did as he said
But the clock is quickly ticking down
And he senses an impending dread.
The driveway from her house was a gangplank
overhanging a lonely sea
In vain, he looked over his shoulder
as the door slammed with finality.
The mutiny happened quickly
he was exiled and forever banished
All tethers had been severed and hacked,
all connections slashed
Cut adrift from a wreck of a relationship whose anchor of regret
Threatened to pull him under
He kicked and splayed his body frantically
just to keep his head above water
Even Captain Bligh was offered a boat
He hoped his anger could keep him afloat
Dusty flakes from the butterfly’s wings
Powdered her palm with a silky sheen
She feared she had wounded the fragile thing
After saving it from the tangle of the mesh screen
Or had it come for one final stay
To bask in the warmth of the morning light
before eternity called it to slip away
She worried she forced it to take flight
I had an unconscious coupling once
It was the best weekend of my life that I will never remember
The children excitedly scream while leaping about the floor.
Giddy with delight, they scamper for position behind the front door.
Laden down with grocery bags and exhausted from her day,
Mum’s swamped with hugs and kisses before she is in halfway.
Like summer flowers reaching up to follow the path of the sun,
Her radiance is reflected back from them with love, ‘We missed you mum.’
Squirrels bummed titbits off the tourists
Who in turn oohed and awed at their cuteness
While slowly raising cameras to capture images
Of the grey bushed tailed rodents
Before they skittered away
To the safety of the treetop canopy
They are starting to grow and I am so, so proud of them
With every little achievement they succeed, they are blooming.
But a selfish part of me silently cries
Because I am becoming less and less needed in their eyes.
They no longer need me to push them on the swings,
Or warn them not to pick up dirty and stinky things.
They can wash themselves and brush their own hair
And decide for themselves what clothing they ought to ware.
They have mastered Velcro and zips, buttons and laces
But sometimes they need reminding to wipe their faces.
They can open the fridge and help themselves to a snack
And are sneaky enough to swipe extra cookies behind my back.
They are growing quickly and will definitely be
Taller and stronger and smarter than me.
I pray for their happiness, their health and their safety
No matter what happens they’ll always be my babies.
I do and will always love them, come what may
And I hope they will know I do each and every day.
• Should trespassers be welcomed because there is money to be had in a good prosecution?
• How long do you have to stand in one place before it is considered loitering?
• Is it more logical to put a “No Entry” sign no a wall instead of on a door?
• If I do not apply for the vacancy how will the employers know if I am a timewaster or not?
• Similarly, if I have all the credentials for the position, but occasionally enjoy laughing, will I still be considered as a serious applicant?
• If water is transparent, why do clothes look darker when they are wet?
• If the earth still exists in a couple of billion years, and every creature continues to evolve, eventually will there be only one type of ultimate life form on the planet?
• Where does the white go when snow melts?
• Why do people pretend marmalade tastes nicer than jam?
• Do astronauts use sunscreen when they are in outer space and closer to the sun?
• Is phlegm evil?
• Do female actors really feel offended if you call them actresses?
• If vegetables are so good for you why is there vegetable fat?
• Do bats fly when it is raining?
• The population of the earth is roughly seven billion people. If horoscopes are to be taken seriously does that mean 12% (or approx. 583 million people) of the earth’s population born between April 21st and May 21st , will meet somebody new today and have an exciting opportunity waiting for them when they least expect it? Or am I being silly?
There is anger, there, in her movements.
In the loudness of each trudged step.
In the rough handling of inanimate objects.
There is anger in her words.
Each syllable designed to cut and puncture.
Each consonant rasped,
Each vowel stretched and barked.
There is anger with each noise that cannot be spelt, but only hinted at:
In the gravity of her sigh,
In the emphasised grunt,
In the poignant snort.
There is anger in her scathing look,
Or more so, in the avoidance of eye contact.
There is anger in her hands:
In the clenching of a tissue,
In the balled fist barely kept in check against her side.
There is anger in her tight-lipped frown,
In the malice of her clenched teeth
And in the danger of her jawline.
There is too much anger in the four-year-old girl when she does not get her own way.
1…..Award winning agriculturist Miles Fansworth donated his record-breaking 123lb swede to the National Library last night. During the presentation ceremony he was quoted as saying, “There’s a turnip for the books.”
2….In other news, Bootylicious singer Beyonce Knowles has successfully sued her dietician of twelve years, Professor Susan Alswell, for deliberately prescribing her laxatives instead of a nutritional supplement after the recent birth of her child.
A spokeswoman for the singer has stated the following: “Ms Knowles suffered greatly due to the incorrect medication. And she regrets the professional relationship with professor Alswell has came to such a messy end.”
Eight second rule.
One second for a glimpse.
Two seconds for a peek.
Three seconds for a glance.
Four seconds for a look.
Five seconds for a gawk.
Six seconds for a stare.
Seven seconds for an ogle.
Eight seconds for a leer.
Rushing
static free,
The dodge and weave
The sidestep and double shuffle
Outer clothes brush and flap a ruffle
Ever so slightly.
“Cant be late.”
Carving through the crowd:
Pedestrian verses pedestrians
The slow drooling cumbersome ones who stop
Who stall
And ponder over their wonderings.
“Get out of my way. Have you nothing better to do?”
Shifting from heel to toe as the instinctive jolt and pivot demands. “idiot,”
I call to one who shunts left suddenly.
One that represents all of them to me.
Frustration becomes the harbinger of anger.
I am unable to tell if I am annoyed with the awkward people impeding my travels,
or at myself
for hurrying to be on time so I may wait for one known for his lateness.