| Through peaches in my tea I see |
[Mar. 6th, 2011|01:39 pm] |
Winding vines climb,
refined from rosewood,
entwined with the dulcimer’s
harped piano plink.
Peach-wreathed tea
reaches steamily up
from my cup, scent teasing
the senses.
Sipped,
the tea slips warmly
through my lips,
peach sweet
on my tongue's tip.
The same smell
wells,
swelling
from the Glade in an airy lavatory
papered with primrose roses,
sunlit spring yellow.
Outside,
sunned sandy carpet spills
downstairs, filling
the empty living room
from whence spring rose-chintz frills and fronds;
lace-macassaed glade basking silent,
buttered soft in summer sun.
I sip tears and
washing my hands
in a porcelain sink where
verdigris on the snow
marked decades' trail of water.
The shaving brush stood
unused beside its bowl.
Catching movement, my face
caught my face
in a corner mirror
where I thought to see another,
with the same eyes
and greyer hair.
My footsteps make no sound
on the sandy stair.
Downstairs,
sunlight streams in.
On a table,
single,
laid and empty;
medicine sits stacked neatly by the dessert spoon,
cane caught and propped beside the table leg,
cardigan hugging the chair back,
placed to face the tulip-tinted lawn.
In this warm, sunny room,
a clock ticks on.
Through peaches in my tea, I see.
Under my hand, the mahogany table.
White china cup,
lighting limes climbing vines;
behind,
a smiling monk in orange robes
plays pastoral bamboo beautifully.
Peaches reach my nose,
stream in the sun through yellow roses.
Three hundred metres away (ten thousand of my miles),
beyond the sleeping dragon,
the hand that held the spoon so delicately,
baked crisp-crusted butter clove and apple pie,
handed me tulips the colour of my bloodied knee,
blue-veined,
lies ash with ash
under the green hill
heard in a hymn, once. |
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| Desk job |
[Feb. 11th, 2010|09:42 pm] |
In the end, humanity
Was the quality treasured beyond measure
Pity, compassion, emotion
Over promotion, commotion, demotion
In our hours, hoarded between shifts
Thriftily saved and paid in tides of timeout
They valued it more than any score of product hits or revenue
Reviewed in meetings - friendship, hope
They spent a whole day defining respect
They argued incessantly over the right to think
Extinct in laterday workers, whose disappointed appointments
Had disjointed their hard hopes and limited scope for endurance
Perhaps we didn’t look hard enough
All those tools in school - the days we played
Up, talked up, walked out, sauntered from one table to the next
So naturally, restrained by dictatorial disdain
We inked our desks sinking into a solepsism
Lapsing perhaps at lunch or brunch to crunch
Fitfully in your ear, diss your gear or call upon a fear
To tear you away from your eye-staying gaze
Today, we met in a board meeting to discover where the moments went
We studied spontaneity, gaiety and paid tribute to games
Estranged from ourselves.
I thought it was like theatre
Panto played with marionettes
Constantly searching for something inside
Like a Beckett play, abstracted
All alzheimered, missing the bird in hand
It’s behind you! And in front, if you’ll confront
Yourself. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 23rd, 2010|09:45 pm] |
Flying by the old oak’s smoke
My pigeon outdistanced the regular post
To reside in the classifieds,
Typical typeface, arranged in accord
With broad directives, hoping to find
You in some place with a coffee (tin)
Tabletop and (waste-filled) bin.
You spilled a little, circled my words
I heard. Chyaiy for me. Vi rabotayu?
But the wings of the Guardian in the wind
Fell flat, fluttered faintly
In the spluttering light, flightless.
Twenty twinkling stars
Tinkled
As your words froze.
Khalodniy.
Clods of snow creaked
Under your sneakers
And the slow ice,
Christ, the slow ice is deep sleep,
Creeping.
High laughter tinkles,
A mile away,
Inscribing a sparkling arc
Over the snow-glow.
Overwhelming, the welcome warm,
Breath knifeless and light with laughter.
Crackling, my classifieds fry pigeon fricassé.
You take two cups, but leave the tea,
Pay for café au lait and, slinging the string on your guitar,
Sing bawdy ballads to a browbeat’ crowd,
Who laud with rouwdy applause;
Plaudits to the maudlin man
Of patent voice and flawless plan. |
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| Silk |
[Dec. 30th, 2009|05:17 pm] |
Sky fragments folding
Azure, duck egg, dawn drawn
hue of brilliant blue
Illumined, follows the flow
Feather-light
Fabric chafes
rarely
rippling the air
fragments coarse-cut
Sky ribboned, blooming brushes
Fustian lilac across the boards
Hoarded dusk
Thread-tumbled skeins
soft as summer sky
lay a veiled midnight
cloak of cloth combed
velvet-soft
cast off on the boards |
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| The Sky-Driver/The Sky-Drover |
[Dec. 10th, 2009|04:22 pm] |
Children's story (needs easier vocab)...
His beard is fierce, bristling from a form with a weird-weathered grace.
*
At daybreak, he wakes and ploughs the curdling clouds.
*
He finds the climes lined with plane trails and wispy whales.
*
Phantom sails billowed, glittering above the pale spires below.
*
He forced the cold clouds north.
*
He drove the low clouds south.
*
Bits of mist drifted by in ever-feathered flights.
*
Fleeced sheep, they chased the face of sleep.
*
Heaped high they comprised a tall-towered keep.
*
Peeping giltily, the sun watched them take fields at a run.
*
Beaming bright, the sun dreams of creamy sheep.
*
When the snows blow in, the air tastes of ice, tingling on the tongue. |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 10th, 2009|04:10 pm] |
Because I kept secrets I slept
Badly, while discrete
Careful not to share your mind
Now I find
You would have had me sleep
And let the secrets keep themselves |
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| intangibly touched |
[Dec. 10th, 2009|04:06 pm] |
Like a dancer,
Making the first move,
You reached and held the shape, traced
My waist, the nape of my neck -
Air only. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 14th, 2009|02:37 pm] |
...pulsed persistently inside me, turning
I gasped. Wide-eyes
Wandering the wallpaper
As my hands grasped
Amassed feathers
Struggling to keep the bird
Inside as it cried, crushing its wings
Against ring-barred bone
Encased in breathless flesh. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 13th, 2009|11:15 pm] |
Bang!
A misfire,
A ricochet
Clichéd beyond belief
As I lie bleeding,
Target pressed
Too bloody tight
Against my chest
I wonder
When Cupid switched
To firearms. |
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| (no subject) |
[Oct. 13th, 2009|11:11 pm] |
I think I am going to be sick
Because I'm remarkably thick
Why didn't I know,
I'd continue to grow
Into such a whole-hearted prick. |
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