Author Archives

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nothings #6

“don’t forget …”
voice already spilling into shadow’s current, spreading,
merging with a starrish sky, pointed saviours far away.

“me. now …”
in the hum of blindsight’s thrall, be knotstill and listen.

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fate (triolet-ed)

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*sigh … have been too tired to hear muse clearly so, nudged (boot in backside style) by dear J, i turned this into an almost bearable triolet

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‘tis nothing but an echo of a kiss
limned in dusty bone and shade
barely intimate – while this,
‘tis nothing, but an echo of a kiss.
Cold end touch remembers the abyss,
cage of subtle rib in splintered fade,
‘tis nothing – but an echo of a kiss
limned in dusty bone – and shade.

by

accolade

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it’s taken an hour to get the hang of pre-formatting text and now i can’t get font size sorted – please bear with this as is!

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gulls flock                         white and grey slow motion focus
keen sights locked on                                silver shadowed
shards of life                          gathered close in ocean skin
cold depth softened                              in the sun and calm

seized and hauled aloft                    in flight they die amazed
so much death                                      to feed gull need
flesh and blood                            so clean the beauty hurts

                     too much to be alive

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vessels (edited)

Time beats pulse on hollow vessels,
hovers over sterile tomb.
Inches from our hearts each path
wraps bone in aching streak of vein.


sometimes in your arms
i was almost loved

Waxy skull leaves yellow stain,
dull grain on vivid empty palm.
Life’s echo paints a fading line
in heavy silence, aches and lies.


sometimes in my arms
you felt almost loved

……………………

new version of an older poem … fits with easystreet prompt #175

…………………

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fate

The pact flesh makes to disappear
frees wyrd from rib,
sweet curve of subtle cage
craves nothing
but its own destruction.

Cold end touch of wordless bone,
so barely intimate,
is nothing
but an echo of this kiss.
Sun’s dust embraces wind.

inspired by easystreet prompt #161

by

only just (a sonnet)

In cloudy dreams night-nevers torment most,
inspire a lightning rush of heart to skin.
This earthy pressure sighs too much for lost
night-crow, tearing sleep apart. Stars spin

me close to you, whole-blooded. Take my flight
then, from this dark, sweet only-ever. Speak
in rainy morning tones. Dare keenest light
and make a move on one who dares to seek.

Your cigarette weeps heat and hazes thought,
blush paints a faint horizon in my eye.
Lover, morn me well. See spark rise uncaught
yet only, always, just within your sky.

Smoke teases cloudy sleep but leaves no trace
on earthen dream, no scar in flesh. Just grace.

by

junk male

congratulations!

you have made it
to the final round
of men who
think no
must be paid for

any way

your commitment
to this cause
is noted though
it cost you

every yes
that truly matters.


by

reverie

Moon’s eye gazes, surface-still,
reflections’ sheen on slow-cold;
water guards your deep so well.

Silence bears deer tension,
wild cat scent is just another
hunt without a start-line.

A stone falls in the lake and
caution circles, intuition’s
pale light glances filmy glaze.

No one dares to stay, see you
stare-down fear, illusion’s pose,
see you move all ways at once.

This so needs an edit!! Ario? … *grin

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nothings #5

the ache to move forward, poignant as the urge to look back, wonders if things could have been … different. lines cross and she steps not-so-lightly over them. dressed in rare bizarrity torn on barbed wire she is floating, limbless now, among the bright organza. be-ribboned flesh bleeding breath and humming stars.

sometimes
she sees only red
in mind
on claws
again

by

karmic-ally

fever burned strange dream
on lead-weight cloth, impression
torn in half – it should be art
but for the dark – and you:

mistress of so many dying names
tangled in beautific smile,
unaware the shaken monolith of
bones behind awaits your own.

by

intensity

he looked a bit like you;
studying red wine,
concentration undeterred by
friday’s rush to feed
unruly hordes.

his gaze interrogated every
sigh of colour
in advance of later when

she might look a bit like me;
a blushing haze, spilled
wine in your lake.

by

beached

I’d never seen lightning in the clouds quite like that. It spoke of me. Maybe even came from me. Don’t ask me how I knew. It just was. I felt it rise in veins already bursting on the beach of someone not yet met. You were already drowned in sand. An abyss of my contempt. Your ignorance of nature and my essence was appalling. Lightning held my time in trust until I claimed it back. You thought that it was ours. You were wrong.

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fox

His bohemian trail’s a shadow
courting early hours.
Elegant in frost and freedom,
moon’s wise-dog is lingering
insight, testing scent.
He knows I watch him circle
starlit thoughts between us,
that I glean his wake
for echoes of another world
beyond this hide in space.

 

and then this ~ beloved friend J reworked and out-fox’d me *smiles*

His bohemian shadow
courts the early morning
frost, my elegant freedom.

A mongrel moon lingers
in sight of testing scent,
alert to crescent starlight
thought between us.

I glean his waking echo
for other worldly space,
for us to hide.

 

by

breeze (in curtain)

Dim blur pools to form the shape
of wind this time, spills
weightless shadow on mind’s veil.
Reason’s dogma must
dissolve in space and distant lie.

Otherwise, between perception,
intuition and all things,
you’ll stare at the wall, unmoved.
More still in flesh than
undeveloped photographic

elements discarded, turned away,
frightened of exposure.
We are both pools of shapely
vision, weightless veils
and shadow stones, turning time.

by

ageing well

Mud turns slow to stone
around heel-heavy imprints,
earthbone’s marked for life
with sunken hieroglyphics,
fossilized at vanish point.

Dreams are signed on skin.
Barely legible, their tracks
are staggered, silly patterns
tripping over crow’s feet
nimble with oblivion.

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downpour

Solitary grey man dances
with a red umbrella,
feigning freedom outside
Edwards’ wine bar.

Summer dresses cling and
blur through rainy glass.
The scathing edge of rejection’s
glancing blow bleeds
flirtation to a bitter end.

by

after/words (triolet?)

Afterwards, there is more than silence.
Words pulse in phantom fingertips,
mapping skin-dreams, trailing wild-sense.
Afterwards there is more. Then silence.

Tenderly, thought moves mere absence,
over-arching mind to find eclipse.
Afterwards, there is more-than silence.
Words pulse. In phantom, finger tips.

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glimpse

 

Palm-tied to earth I love wings, cruising low so easily to accept golden seed from my fault-lines. Is my heart devoid of altitude, cauterized too often to feel anything but the blasted past of pain? No. Sky-seed’s in all veins. We’re rising beyond monochrome. The birds and I. You?

by

reading you

Moon’s eye gazes, surface-still,
reflections’ sheen on slow-cold;
water guards your deep so well.

Silence bears deer tension,
wild cat scent is just another
hunt without a start-line.

A stone falls in the lake and
caution circles, intuition’s
pale light glances filmy glaze.

No-one dares to stay or see
you stare down fear and all
illusion’s poise, to see you
move all ways at once.

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nothings #2

 

They think you’re dead. Dust on the ocean. Fish food now.

Dead has four letters, one repeat so three. And dea isn’t a word in English so it’s incomplete or something else. A prelude maybe.

Always has six letters, one repeat so five. Not counting decades of linguistic change – they change numbers and geometry. All wayes. Not even just one word, hey?

Then there’s the big bad book. Now that nails mind and perspective to a fishing rod destined to stay empty. Some bait, huh? Do fish count the days to their next meal?

Forget the words and numbers.
Everything is lost if translation lacks a heart.

You don’t have to try that hard to see a full moon all the time no matter what the quadrant says.

By the way, life has four letters. No repeats. Soul food for the gods?

by

so …

your place:
minimalist cold with
half truths’
mumble, glossing over
could-a never-beens
hiding from the dread
full rain

or mine
among untidy words
jousting for the couch,
climbing walls
to dance on ceilings

where
shadows flower, straggle
in flamboyant
mis-matched verse,
unkempt and without care
for staid perfection.
petals listen for the rain,
recall every fall.

by

muse-in

Muse is painful rapture. She or he or them. In you. Such depths of being lost in freefall are beyond lustful word cages which lean towards authority. It may or may be not your soul, a higher self or something Jung connected. Hot achilles’ heel of Freud’s womb-fetish. It’s fully, truly immaterial. It really is.

When the air is heaving, breathing right back at you, when it seems that something’s going to happen and you’ve no clue what it is, only that it’s way beyond even wishing to control, then Muse is present. So you give, no, surrender all – and expect nothing.

Can you expect nothing?

It’s like watching a gorgeous map illuminate onscreen at an alarming rate. Or that media player, describing tone in motioned colour. You’re a stunned witness and suddenly you know that you are a dark screen for creation.

On your perfect empty space energies connect, split open, multiply.

This is pre-word still in thought. It’s a different language here and words slow you down. So you tinker with a keyboard or a pen just so you don’t get in the way. Sometimes words fall, accidentally it seems, from the wake of neuron fire. You rush to gather them. These are the ones you treasure, nurture later, but not now because you might miss something on the screen and it’s compulsive viewing.

If you can, remember everything. Accept that you won’t. Know that you’ll mourn each loss, forever feel the trace of where each fire snaked through nerve and then left.

Muse journeys are so-willed yet always unprepared for. It’s not like you anticipate stepping out naked on a multi-laned highway in midnight’s rushing hour – but here you are. Hoping that you’ll never be the same again. Wishing you could stay forever because here is real. With its feet up on your ego while its cigarette is burning through your nightgown. And you don’t care about that. Even if it hurts. Even when it hurts. Only that it’s so.

And the voices say “this way” all at once. You can’t ask them to slow down, though you try. They don’t like that much. You can’t ask what they mean, you’ve only got a hair’s breadth of their language, a series of unfolding lightwaves not a structure. Don’t even think about it in those terms because here’s a vastness strong enough to dissolve rather than dilute essence. Give it yours.

Later, when you’re picking up the pieces of your self, it’s a comfort that the muse’s claw stuck purposefully in your heart cannot be dislodged.

Beloved token. Mystery. In You. Again.

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sartre day

Sirens draw flat-line to night,
dream scattered owl-talk
fades while talons
skewer masked intentions’
pre-dawn dialogue with rage.

They hunt
we hide

behind soft curtains, held
in the net of disbelief.
A glimpse of what we think
we’re not. Entombed.

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detach-mentally

Leaves scrape at glass, gather in a crackle,
fill yard corners with bright memories
and gossip at the edge of winter’s mercy.

Their brittle voices are already precious
ghosts, disturbing skeletals,
colours dashed against the wall,
to the ground, summer kites unbound.

I’ll move them later, gather up each voice
that was, listen to the echoes leaving
in the wind and wonder how it’s done,
this unstrung madness falling into grace.

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in the dark

Upside down, or so it seems, bats hang.
Dreams cape tree in ruffled dark,
sonar drifting, idle taste of moth in air.
Shy leather fans hold echoes
fur-close, cradle sound of stormy night.

Inside out, or so it seems, mind stabs
evasive moon yet misses heart.
Unspoken torment, wind impounds
for fun. Fortunate that flame
endures long life for moth to fly at all.

Quiet sense of wing, hush, don’t disturb
the night. Thought-fire only ever
rests for dawn to tip cool branch with sun.
Let me watch dark shadows – slide
to kiss then leave your shoulders bare.

by

remember how …

Raucous autumn skirts round carnal flirt;
rain tiered breeze stirs interest wild,
gold-leafs thought, recalls warmer time.
Anticipation senses change is due,
sweet November shower scents first move.

Coy night slides low day to silken shade,
where I dream. Alone – but for you,
teasing velvet from grey sky to wind
around my tired fingertips, lest I
forget how seasons follow one another.

 

by

where are we?

All tied up in cloudy dreams, night-nevers
and this lightning rush of heart to skin,
earth trembles. Empty ground is lost to night
crows teasing sleep into mad earth. Stars melt

me back to you whole-blooded. Make a move
now, in this dark that only ever speaks
of those who ache this much to fall on light.

Your cigarette weeps heat on flesh as dawn’s
blush raises faint horizon, strips it of
another’s heresy. Lover, mark me
well with sun-warm tongue before I sleep.

 

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unsaying …

Did I lose you in the silence after shouting? That other night. When I drank too much. Assumed too much. Deluded self importance.

If I wasn’t quite so hopeful that you might be my last, it would be hilarious. How I push you for a sign that I am. Deeply precious. More than a distant and intriguing brainwavespark in this messed-up ether. How I could ever have seen myself as some kind of guiding light for Love when I screw up so much. Time and again. How I am so dazzled and in dream. In you.

Can I unsend the email?

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