Tag Archives: sadness

Sprite

Sprite
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

She lives in the woods,
my wild-eyed girl,
soft-spun beneath skies
of bluegrass dew,
 

unbound, unwound from the
grey cotton spool,
spinning in prisms
of liberty’s light.
 

I’ve begged her come home
to tangle her bones
in the threadbare bed
of the sullen moon
 

but she’ll not leave the breeze
of the trees’ hushed bloom
or the shift of the river’s
sweet-petalled scent.
 

So I dance in the woods
with my wild-eyed girl,
soft-spun beneath skies
of bluegrass dew
 

until dusk’s last dance
returns me alone
to the threadbare bed
of the sullen moon.
 
 

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It’s the not knowing

universe

‘Love is so short, forgetting is so long’

Pablo Neruda

 

It’s the not knowing that drags;
an emotional gravity
that skewers us to the earth,
holding our feet in concrete
and our hearts in a dewdrop web
of half truths.
 

It’s the not knowing that clouds,
that ruins the night sky,
obscuring fractal glitter
with the dust of uncertainty
until we find ourselves unable
to see beyond our own atmosphere.
 

It’s the not knowing that bites,
sinking its teeth when the sun dips
below the watery horizon
and the beach fire crackles its last,
darkness slipping us deep
beneath its counterpane of sorrow.
 

It’s the not knowing that slices,
that cuts through us
with the gilded blade of illusion,
leaving us baffled and bereft,
forever craving
a simple promised truth.

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nine lines of loveliness after a week of rain


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Paddling swiftly now beyond
deluged days and swollen nights,
 

ebony umbrellas languish
in hushed oaken hallways,
yesterday’s dolor
puddling monochrome.
 

In the prism-drenched
meadows of tomorrow
parasols and petticoats twirl.
 
 

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Up on the Roof


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Diurnal curtain falls as Belenus
takes a bow, casting angled
shadows on slated gambrel.
 

Dusk deep-toes rusty gutters;
twilight’s precipitous bluff
sloughed in pulpous moss.
 

Calignosity clings to the ridge,
rinsing secrets in rainwater,
awaiting incandescent resurrection.
 
 

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Melanchrome


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Tombstone early morning tide;
splintered shell pierces pallid skin,
sculls along labyrinthine veins –
oxygen-starved lanes.

Blood-soaked sound,
underwater aural pound,
spikey versed consumptive curse
lodged in lungs and liver-skinned skeins.

Insomnia-driven; dank,
rasp-ridden, sleep-deprived weep.
Saturation deep-strips hue.

Ululation over; nude lips hunker
beneath orbs scraped of colour –
 
 

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Rock Paper Scissors

If I’m on fire they dance around it
and cook marshmallows.
And if I’m ice they simply skate on me
in little ballet costumes.

 

~ Anne Sexton
 

A bemused observer
of their game until now,
I have become a portentous player
for I am Water.
 

Not the cleansing hill streams of Snowdonia,
the bottled minerals of Cerist,
or the bland, reservoir-rated,
‘lapped from the dog’s bowl’ drink.
 

No,
I am neither clear nor pure.
I do not quench their sand-filled throats
with the serum of their early years
or cool their ragged-flanelled fevers
as my beads burn from their foreheads.
 

I am torrents of snot-filled globules
bubbling in a salty cauldron,
liquid spittle unravelling before them.
I am deliquescent disorder,
drowning amid the septic sewer’s craw.
 

So what will become of them?
 

My rock,
my tiny pebble
who grew into a heather-faced
mountain of a man,
strong enough that I could lean on him
and feel small against his contours
his steady drumbeat a perfect paradiddle
to my erratic metronome.
Will he plunge into the slithering river,
his rhythm faint and failing
as he sinks into the brackish silt?
 

My first-born paper boy,
so many scribbled lines shared late into the night,
even when distanced by the delerium
of drunken student life.
Will his blue-scribed words bleed,
his pages turn to pulp
as his adolescent song
runs sopping through the gutters?
 

And what of her,
my sharp-tongued, slippery seamstress
with her silver-fish wit and her precious metal smile,
her glinting shears swathing effortlessly
through the diaphanous dream
that she weaves around her.
Will her blades rust
beneath the deluge of my sorrow,
as the naïve loom lies abandoned
in the corner of a cobwebbed room?
 

No,
for I am Water.
I can be poured
back into the pitcher,
treated and filtered
until I run clean and clear again,
dancing weightless and unfettered
in the myriad sparkling streams
of Mynydd Mawr
where they will lift me to their lips
in cool-cupped hands
and sup from me once more.
 
 

~ Mynydd Mawr ( Welsh for big mountain) is a mountain in Snowdonia, North Wales and is pronounced Mun-ith Mow-r (rhymes with hour)
 
 

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