Category Archives: Villanelle

Arianrhod

Arianrhod

 

We walk at night my girl and I
and talk of life and love’s sweet ache,
beneath a silver dusted sky.
 

Half-summoned by the nightjar’s cry,
uncertain of which path to take,
we walk at night my girl and I,
 

unhook and take apart the lie,
unravel every dark mistake,
beneath a silver dusted sky.
 

Answers sought in every sigh,
curiosity’s thirst to slake,
we walk at night my girl and I,
 

discarding every alibi,
false promises we now forsake
beneath a silver dusted sky
 

Despite nocturnal lovers’ cry,
soft-sullen moon upon the lake,
we walk at night my girl and I
beneath a silver dusted sky.

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The Boatman

Henry

For Henry
 

In the rise of the sun and the fall of the tide
As the little boat slowdrifts away from the quay
Hold steady the rudder as he pulls alongside
 

As our sorrow and solace begin to collide
Amid fragments of light his new course we now see
In the rise of the sun and the fall of the tide
 

Though our hearts are still heavy, our tears undried
We loosen the reef knots and accept what will be
Hold steady the rudder as he pulls alongside
 

On the warm breath of summer sweet melodies glide
Over waves in the cool shade of Van’s Redwood Tree
In the rise of the sun and the fall of the tide
 

Let our arms release him and our tongues be untied
To sing Hallelujah, set his happy soul free
Hold steady the rudder as he pulls alongside
 

New horizons to chart with fresh hope as his guide
On his last voyage out on this tranquil blue sea
In the rise of the sun and the fall of the tide
Hold steady the rudder as he pulls alongside

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Dust

Dust

In life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,
from the creeping dawn till the sun’s last ray,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

In the quiet streets of the neighbourhood,
in cribs and cradles where our infants lay,
in life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,

where the children thrived as we knew they would,
on the golden sand and the sparkling bay,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

In moments we did the best that we could,
whilst bereft of the light and cloaked in grey,
in life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,

in well-meant promises misunderstood,
quiet goodbyes at the end of the day,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

In abandoned churches on oaken wood,
where hymns of our childhood no longer play,
in life’s precious remnants and all that’s good,
the dust of us settles where we once stood.

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Shroud

"Moon Water" rehearsel by the Cloud Gate Dance Theatre of Tiawan.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Today you wake and find me gone away,
slipped quietly into the morning mist;
just know it was because I could not stay.
 

Don’t send the dogs to find me, restless prey,
your need to apprehend, love please resist;
today you wake and find me gone away.
 

When all around you scattered disarray,
torn remnants of the girl that you once kissed;
just know it was because I could not stay.
 

‘Neath shallow pre-washed dawn in tepid grey,
wet-rinsed and wrung out by life’s cruel wrist;
today you wake and find me gone away.
 

Your soul hung out, pegged hard by hurt’s dismay,
damp cloth exposed for fierce wind to twist:
just know it was because I could not stay.
 

Though loneliness we try to keep at bay,
you cannot hold love’s fabric in your fist.
Today you wake and find me gone away;
just know it was because I could not stay.
 

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Strawberry Crush


 
 

We lull in hammocked hum of summer days,
cocooned within our hessian-tilted hush,
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 

Our skin soft-spun in gifted lithium rays,
hair honey-combed beneath Belenus’ brush,
we lull in hammocked hum of summer days.
 

Gold buttercupping chins in pollen haze,
our creamy cheeks full-fill with nascent blush,
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 

Oak blossom, broom and meadowsweet ablaze,
while grifting scents from freshly-cut grass crush
we lull in hammocked hum of summer days.
 

With eager lips we feast on juicy fraise,
tongues quenched as we devour vermilion rush,
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 

Suspended far above the ticking baize
and bathed in season’s smooth lutescent flush,
we lull in hammocked hum of summer days
sift cerulean blues from grey malaise.
 
 

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Masked


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Skillfully stilled and digitally mastered,
all creases erased round raggy-edged eyes,
porcupine spine limp-quilled to a glacier.
 

Pinwheeled and pinholed iconoclaster
shuttered in buttery lemon-light skies,
skillfully stilled and digitally mastered.
 

Vanity falls to crumple-core capture
as filigree-filtered soul sanitised,
porcupine spine limp-quilled to a glacier.
 

Pixels per inch that make up the raster,
vector of image, glissando reprise,
skillfully stilled and digitally mastered.
 

Obtainable twain, youth’s alabaster
sickly slipslides past the visualise,
porcupine spine limp-quilled to a glacier.
 

Fleshlife shows perfect porcelain’s fracture
as daylight invites us to scan, scrutinise.
Skillfully stilled and digitally mastered,
porcupine spine limp-quilled to a glacier.
 
 

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Petticoat


 

She slipped beneath me, lost it seemed, for days,
a torn and ragged wisp I failed to grasp,
that withered in the mottled mirror-gaze.
 

Caliginous dysfunctional malaise,
shushed-silent but for dusk’s death-rattle rasp,
she slipped beneath me, lost it seemed, for days.
 

Bewildered child within the laddered maze,
seduced by sorrow’s vile puissant asp
that slithered in the mottled mirror-gaze.
 

Entombed within the muddy-mettled greys,
enveloped by seclusion’s gutt’ral gasp,
she slipped beneath me, lost it seemed, for days.
 

‘Neath fractal glitter, hope returned rephrased,
deft-delicately held with hook and hasp,
soft-swithered in the mottled mirror-gaze,
 

her party dress – resplendent polonaise
and in her hand the proffered, beaded clasp.
Wraith-like beneath her, lost it seemed, for days;
I found myself within her mirrored gaze.
 
 
 

~ a polonaise is a woman’s dress with a tight bodice and an overskirt drawn back to reveal a colorful underskirt or petticoat

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Salve

We pick the grit from knees life gravel-grazed,
blunt-tweeze with poorly practised pincer grip
and swab the wounds of those that we have raised.
 

As bullies leave our babies dumped and dazed
and scoop cold marrow from the playground skip
we pick the grit from knees life gravel-grazed.
 

Sanguineous crust is used, replaced, erased,
with trembling hands we pull the plaster, rip,
and swab the wounds of those that we have raised.
 

As suitors come and go and hopes are razed
and kisses barb the mouth, fish-hook, cleft lip,
we pick the grit from knees life gravel-grazed.
 

The total sum of care is not appraised,
all debts are crushed as we defer the scrip
and swab the wounds of those that we have raised.
 

When finally our harrowed core has blazed
and youth has sailed on creaking sallow ship
we’ll pick the grit from knees life gravel-grazed
and swab our wounds with those that we have raised.
 
 

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Tumble


 
 

Forget the fortress walls on which we lean,
unhealthy, mortgaged marriage; bricks and land,
true strength lies in the spaces in between.
 

Confined within bastilles we crash-careen
between two jobs, clock-watching, minute hand,
forget the fortress walls on which we lean.
 

These spirit-levelled prisons, chains unseen,
will shackle minds until we understand
true strength lies in the spaces in between.
 

Monopoly portfolios: obscene,
support joints crack beneath the tax demand,
forget the fortress walls on which we lean.
 

As bills pile up against the cash machine
and bailiffs rape for rupee, pound or rand
true strength lies in the spaces in between.
 

As banks foreclose on homes, call in the lien,
foundations flounder, mortar turns to sand.
Forget the fortress walls on which we lean,
true strength lies in the spaces in between.
 
 

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Supplication

Pray to our gods that our children will shun
malignant malaise, militia’s cold might,
old shoulders aiming democracy’s gun.
 

Spider-climb lies that their leaders have spun;
pallid untruths that proclaim to unite.
Pray to our gods that our children will shun
 

slick manifestos, oiled speech over-run,
warmonger prophets that aim to incite,
old shoulders aiming democracy’s gun
 

warning our youth there’s a war to be won,
crimson ink spilt and the wrongs splintered right.
Pray to our gods that our children will shun
 

promised land, seeing the damage that’s done;
bleak arid wasteland devoid of all light,
old shoulders aiming democracy’s gun,
 

blood husks in trenches, bleached bones in the sun,
carcasses licked clean by bellicose blight.
Pray to our gods that our children will shun;
cold-shoulder weight of democracy’s gun.
 
 

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