Evans?  Yes, many a time
I came down his bare flight
Of stairs into the gaunt kitchen
With its wood fire, where crickets sang
Accompaniment to the black kettle"s
Whine, and so into the cold
Dark to smother in the thick tide
Of night that drifted about the walls
Of his stark farm on the hill ridge.

It was not the dark filling my eyes
And mouth appalled me; not even the drip
Of rain like blood from the one tree
Weather-tortured.  It was the dark
Silting the veins of that sick man
I left stranded upon the vast
And lonely shore of his bleak bed.

We're all columns with cracks, that twitch when they creak.
I'm Doric like Greeks, but so loose in the back.
I never know which, nor with itch is this patch,
or the one that keeps silting and clapping this scratch.

As a Pete Pillar, a pillar of Peter, I stand the statue stand,
for when my Dad's too tired to greet, I make like a pillar with hands.
Near the gate, is where I see the men and women shaking.
Nervous is what nervous seems, as souls go limp with taking.

In this morning's waiting room
And then the café, breaking bread -

I might have read,
Engaged in reverie
Lost myself in thoughts,
Or meditative memory.

But someone overruled
To agitate the air
With an imbroglio
With the inane, vain,
Smug banter of local radio.

It claimed the arena,
And turned our space
From haven into mayhem,
Compulsively silting up
My poor, empty ears
With an unhealthy sound.
Like painting out the view
Behind Beata Beatrix
With a filthy fairground.

Just what we need!
This constant aural cattle-feed.
So: every tree in my opinion
- (I'm speaking as a lowly minion)
Should be hung with massive speakers
Huge loudspeakers, woofers, tweeters,
To entertain us in every place
With never-ending drum and bass,
Then verbose youths, with wit so clever
Can pump us full of **** forever.

Suffolk Evening-A Prose Poem

Brown, parched, burnt;
Fire kissed by sun,
Ochre meadows of strewn stubble
Drift away from damp, decaying barns
As the last orange gleam of day
Steals into another warm night.

Crows weave in high taut circles,
Spilling their croaked admonishments
Over empty fields left to sleep in the glow
Of a resplendent transparent moon.

Broad ridged expanses
Lie naked underfoot,
Imbued with the toil of the forgotten.

Ancient flint spires pierce the horizon
Stacked on land veined by silting slits of stony wetness.
All is still ; silent in remembrance.

My mind is silting up,
which is rarely helpful.

“Spirit
is Life
It flows thru
the death of me
endlessly
like a river
unafraid
of becoming
the sea”
-Gregory Corso

A hundred thousand red laps
from one midnight to the next:

the valve clutches and clasps
at wet clapping truths

but they slip away like silk scraps
in the black gap breeze.

The heart is no throne, but wrapped
gnarl - the abandoned winter's nest,

denuded strakes of burlap strap
curved and curled into the branch fork,

disguising the lacuna and the lapse.
Does the river gladly pass into the sea?

Or does the sea sip it down, easy as a nightcap
with chill willow and spruce,

another blue vein-line snuffed on a map,
another salt stone silting an unseen reef?

In this light, our amber
   sunset, Bonnieux has

    all the hallmarks of a
  Costa Concordia, or an

  abandoned container
ship at anchor in some

   forgotten delta where
     alluvial silting has

   candle waxed it into an
    oxidized monstrosity.

In this light, our amber
sunset, Bonnieux has

all the hallmarks of a
Costa Concordia, or an

abandoned container
ship, anchored in some

forgotten delta, where
alluvial silting caused it

to causticly corrode into
an oxidised monstrosity.

The postcard, growing yellow
for so long

No contact
I don't have an address
to do anything about it

Besides, said in thoughts
my words are silting up
with caution

We only share the wind
that covers us

with sand from South
pollen from East, rain from West
and from North the cold comes

Then I pull a sweater
over my heart, stroke
with my fingers

on my one belly
thinking of your hands