Monthly Archives: March 2012

Absence


 
 
 
 
 
 

I
 

As the warmth of the day crawled away
and Dionysus loosed our tongues
the conversation slipped to sliding doors.
 

Is it possible to miss a life not lived?
 
 

II
 

I knew you
in the crude cave markings daubed by thick
Neanderthal fingers, in sand grains beneath
the soles of slaves at the foot of Pyramid labours.
 

I knew you
in Inca trails, in Pucara temples in Tiwanuka
and Titicaca, in stratospheric particle matter
before and after the fire starter.
 

I knew you
in Bluestone caves, in sinews of the brave
who carried them to Pentre Ifan, in their deity
and in their deaths on Preseli’s heathered hills.
 

I knew you
as a stripling yew, in its sap as it grew
and bled, trickling amber down husky bark
to churchyard daffodil beds.
 

I knew you
in the sparkling streams of Mynydd Mawr,
in Gelert’s yelp, Llewellyn’s grief, in Arthurian
tales and Cerridwen’s poet child.
 

I knew you
in vellum maps, stained beneath the fingers
of Columbus’s wanderlust and in the stolen
Spanish gusts that filled El Draque’s sails.
 
 

III
 

As the warmth of the day
crawled back and Dionysus’
wrath lay heavy on our tongues
 

I knew
that had I lived the life
I miss, I would have known
only the gelid absence of you.
 
 

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Filed under Free Verse, Poetry

Lignum Vitae


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Through hollow Lignum Vitae drones
returns the far-flung Fisher King,
the distant toll, a wraith-like ring.
 

The scrape and scraw of salt-bleached bones
thread bellowed groans through dry reed beds
as brass ferrules chant monotones.
 

Come dusk I hear the kelpie sing
through hollow Lignum Vitae drones.
 
 
 
 

~ Lignum Vitae is a very strong durable wood that is used in ship building. It is also used to make the drones of Northumbrian pipes, which are similar to Scottish bagpipes.
 
 

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Filed under Octain, Poetry

the secret life of trees


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

nascent honeysuckling babe
catkin velveteen murmured ripple
rosehip nipple
 

naive milk-bathed melody
harmonic lilt of newborn crush
 

crushed
 

broken, rooted, steeped in scraith
charred, scraw-clawed ascent
scraping cobalt canopy
 

corkscrew willowed silhouette
seeking beams and
warmdrench summer rain
 
 

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Shapes


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Like a piece of ice on a hot stove the poem must ride on its own melting ~ Robert Frost
 
 

Nursing vanilla-caffeine infusion,
soft frost melting against the aga,
I watch them
 

sibling seed heads,
happily bent in solicitude
for their task.
 

In paper intricacies
patient adolescent soothes
her fervent perfectionism –
 

it doesn’t matter if you make mistakes sweetheart,
++++++++++++++++++++that’s what makes each one unique
 

As dusk gnaws at the
frayed edges of the day
I dance a solitary waltz
 

beneath
lacy snowflakes
strung from cobwebbed beams,
 

glistering
in the fractals
of their beautiful mistakes.
 
 

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Mongrel


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Sink,
 

ten-toeing the edge
of Abereiddy lagoon,
craggy hand-held womb,
palpable wraith
of paternal protection.

+++++~

Split/screen vintage
volkswagon camper van,
paradox:
+++++impulsive
+++++++++++girl,
cautious
man.
 

Quick-witted warrior woman
fending off shaggy black,
bouncing the craic,
dirt-dry humour
protecting the scab.
 

Blithely
circumnavigating
full frontal (g)lobe,
foraging, furrowing,
snaffling new goals.
 

Concentrically pursuing
a waggly appendage
while craving the calm
of a downward dog
that can’t be tethered.
 

Sitting uneasily
between skeleton
and skin,
cramped contradiction:
 

seeking approval,
rat’s ass not given.
 

Mellow molten mix,
between, betwixt,
schoolgirl shy
full of vixen tricks,
caught between sunshine
and total eclipse.
 

Constantly pouring an ample C
into a life cup-B,
++++++++++spillage
unavoidable.

+++++~

Maternal cliff climb,
sneaks up behind,
shoves flailing daughter,
swirling water.
 

Swim.
 
 

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дерьмо


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Stranded on the ten lane artery,
they watch the screaming fleet
of armoured blacks, running reds
 

along Kutuzovsky Prospekt.
Clutching tokens, myeloma
ride the carousel, blindfolded.
 

While the barker collects their marks,
Vlad stows a souvenir blue bucket
in the Kremlin bathroom.
 

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Me and Billy ~ Conversations over Cutlery


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Tined forks taunt me from the drawer
as I scan spaces while scrambling eggs.
 

I cast aside papers full of yesterday’s events,
preferring instead to float between lines
++++++++++++++++++++++of Forgetfulness.
 

The black dog settles in her basket,
lulled by the scent of windowsill narcissi
wafting in on Eostre’s breath.
 

Though we no longer speak in spoons,
let us, just for today, sheathe our knives,
untangle our tongues and sit quietly together,
++++++++++++++++++++++enjoying our eggs.

 
 
 

~ Eostre is the Celtic goddess of rebirth, new beginnings and fertility and is seen as Spring personified.

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