We converse
no, we toy with conversation
each word a building block of sentences
that tumble
- we start again
as I take your old age for child play
placing one sentence upon another
suddenly you’ll remember who I am
you giggle into the dark warmth of your bedcovers
- only to re-emerge
bemused
by a world of scattered toys and broken memories.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 9:06 AM UTC
So, you've had gonorrhoea, taken LSD, got lost in Paris and slept with your brother's wife. And now you want to write, to cannonise the unspeakable shame that taunts you. Like breaking wind in a confined space you want attention. You like the vanity of writing, leaving traces of yourself against a tree trunk, the thrill of not knowing who might sniff you out. It must take a certain guile to resurrect the lives of others with no apology or footnote. Life is too short you say. I say: sod the lot who cares what you've got to say, writing is the ***** extension you have longed for.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 8:59 AM UTC
As the earth goes round as a carousel
and you find yourself sliding from one wave to the next;
the lumbering seesaw ride between valley and mountain.
May the playground of your dreams never dim
in the shadow of finite time.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 8:56 AM UTC
*Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is a painting that is felt rather than seen
- Leonardo da Vinci*
Life stilled, tiny pixels of a stolen moment
Your art flowing with light and colour -
You are the poetry
That gives meaning to every pigment of our being.
Shiloh Harmitt
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 8:06 PM UTC
It's the way you flow:
your hips tethered to the beat
as a kite allured by the wind,
you are angular; incurved
in the right places.
Uncaring you have no fear
where the music may take you,
untamed as hot air colliding with cold,
adrift in the density of the rhythm
I soon lose sight of you.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 11:52 AM UTC
Touch offers the deepest clue to the mystery of encounter, awakening and belonging.
John O'Donohue
Child grips the ******
indelicate with haste and
stern impatience a
cradle of warm fleshy love
rucked in the dark of her arms.
Shiloh Harmitt
Nov 10, 2011
Nov 10, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
Pigments of light
draw me to the surface as air
rippled against my skin beckons a
new day.
Between us our contorted bodies gather heat as distant drums
plusate
a primal language long forgotten.
As polarised opposites, we are held
by barometric pressures
with only gravity to our name.
Soon we loosen
& like tectonic plates we slowly drift
heedless of the aftermath above ground.
Shiloh Harmitt
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 12:39 PM UTC