thomas-gabriel-1 - Hello Poetry

It is July and it is Sunday. A dark, restless Sunday. Morning hangs like incense: suspended on the kestrel's wooden wings. Lucidity is but an inky tumult blotting the night's waning stars: disparate, faceless grey among a growing blackness. The smoke of a short-lived fire. The wind hastens. The arms of a birch fold and the church's vane rotates. The theatre! The anticipation. The muteness of the rain on a distant field. Approaching the red-brick house that burns with darkening rooms: streaks of silver gilding the margin of it's cloaked black eyes. A hammer falls on this great, wide anvil: scales of iron scatter and resonate in the upper atmosphere. I cannot bear to look. Not far to the left, at the terminal of a tunnel of some fluted grey fabric, white plumes rise and expand and shadow at the edges. I walk toward them, over the ghost of an old rain, to a familiar garden: heather and clover proliferate in it's borders - they are to be hoed constantly. Hedges of yew and box are to be stripped of the green coats spring afforded them, tailored to my will and at my expense. I fight life and nature equally. Forming a transient perfection here. Perfection soon to be enveloped by the lavender and the stocks, then themselves by the bind-weed that has taken to their blooms and stems, to my very roots. All is sustained by this rain, this depressive dampness.

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Jul 22, 2012

Jul 22, 2012 at 7:54 AM UTC

July 22.

It is July and it is Sunday. A dark, restless Sunday. Morning hangs like incense: suspended on the kestrel's wooden wings. Lucidity is but an inky tumult blotting the night's waning stars: disparate, faceless grey among a growing blackness. The smoke of a short-lived fire. The wind hastens. The arms of a birch fold and the church's vane rotates. The theatre! The anticipation. The muteness of the rain on a distant field. Approaching the red-brick house that burns with darkening rooms: streaks of silver gilding the margin of it's cloaked black eyes. A hammer falls on this great, wide anvil: scales of iron scatter and resonate in the upper atmosphere. I cannot bear to look. Not far to the left, at the terminal of a tunnel of some fluted grey fabric, white plumes rise and expand and shadow at the edges. I walk toward them, over the ghost of an old rain, to a familiar garden: heather and clover proliferate in it's borders - they are to be hoed constantly. Hedges of yew and box are to be stripped of the green coats spring afforded them, tailored to my will and at my expense. I fight life and nature equally. Forming a transient perfection here. Perfection soon to be enveloped by the lavender and the stocks, then themselves by the bind-weed that has taken to their blooms and stems, to my very roots. All is sustained by this rain, this depressive dampness.

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A clock’s hands pain then cease. Dawn stands timeless on a horizon Of soot black trees that drink in the Last darkness, greens and whites Prevail. Mute chalk hills entice a Stirring mind that hungers to leave These walls: walk with the fog as It hangs low over a barley field, Retreating tide, black among grey then noise.

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Mar 29, 2012

Mar 29, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC

Late March.

A clock’s hands pain then cease. Dawn stands timeless on a horizon Of soot black trees that drink in the Last darkness, greens and whites Prevail. Mute chalk hills entice a Stirring mind that hungers to leave These walls: walk with the fog as It hangs low over a barley field, Retreating tide, black among grey then noise.

10

Reticent, morning hides behind boles of alder, the air escaping his lungs Calcifies in my chest. A caustic mist mists Over the rivers pane. Thick White trails into fine liquid Black, interring the slight, torn body. Orange sky-swell Washes incandescent green: Dark sienna burns A path to the waters scorched White stone. The wood Holds no sympathy: alacritous calls knife the sorrowful heart.

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Mar 9, 2012

Mar 9, 2012 at 9:24 PM UTC

Oliver James.

Reticent, morning hides behind boles of alder, the air escaping his lungs Calcifies in my chest. A caustic mist mists Over the rivers pane. Thick White trails into fine liquid Black, interring the slight, torn body. Orange sky-swell Washes incandescent green: Dark sienna burns A path to the waters scorched White stone. The wood Holds no sympathy: alacritous calls knife the sorrowful heart.

15

A March dusk blotted stale bodies; jet-black water ran thick with puerile inks and imparted abandon. Head shrouded in cobalt mist, night idled by a black pane that rang dull and flat. Backtracking rooks caught the vacant eye: threading a monarchical purple cloak to hoard the transient days.

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Mar 2, 2012

Mar 2, 2012 at 10:12 PM UTC

March 3.

A March dusk blotted stale bodies; jet-black water ran thick with puerile inks and imparted abandon. Head shrouded in cobalt mist, night idled by a black pane that rang dull and flat. Backtracking rooks caught the vacant eye: threading a monarchical purple cloak to hoard the transient days.

12

**Afternoon wanes, only morning exists in this sun's perverse mind, blackening. Disdains bedfellow, it’s in darkness I wake - Only afternoons exist.**

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Feb 26, 2012

Feb 26, 2012 at 9:44 AM UTC

1:42pm

**Afternoon wanes, only morning exists in this sun's perverse mind, blackening. Disdains bedfellow, it’s in darkness I wake - Only afternoons exist.**

6

The sky was set, stern and volcanic. My blood ran like meltwater. Winter flew desultory around the roof of a nameless wood - the birds refused to fall.

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Feb 20, 2012

Feb 20, 2012 at 9:54 PM UTC

February 21.

The sky was set, stern and volcanic. My blood ran like meltwater. Winter flew desultory around the roof of a nameless wood - the birds refused to fall.

7

Pinnated clouds spread like wisteria along the horizons waning axis. Farmland is smothered in arbitrary purple leaflets. The humic red fabric of a fallow field convulses on my eye under the discordant, astral confetti. A sombre greyness reclined and presided over all: joyous summer rain-cloud but for the early years icy resolve.

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Feb 16, 2012

Feb 16, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC

February 16

Pinnated clouds spread like wisteria along the horizons waning axis. Farmland is smothered in arbitrary purple leaflets. The humic red fabric of a fallow field convulses on my eye under the discordant, astral confetti. A sombre greyness reclined and presided over all: joyous summer rain-cloud but for the early years icy resolve.

20

Ring-doves with stoles as black as ice, constrained by priestly cloth, flew oblivious to our delights, blotting the evening sun. As rooks adorned The Gallows frame, with limbs demure and frail, bleak spectres stalked the shadows nigh, their faces gaunt and pale. You sought a comfort truly base, on rocks far to the west, thatched dwellings stirring distantly, the town it would not rest. For fear of the malicious one that steals both young and aged: The Gallows wait, their slender necks, like brittle coppice gates.

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Feb 15, 2012

Feb 15, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC

The Gallows.

Ring-doves with stoles as black as ice, constrained by priestly cloth, flew oblivious to our delights, blotting the evening sun. As rooks adorned The Gallows frame, with limbs demure and frail, bleak spectres stalked the shadows nigh, their faces gaunt and pale. You sought a comfort truly base, on rocks far to the west, thatched dwellings stirring distantly, the town it would not rest. For fear of the malicious one that steals both young and aged: The Gallows wait, their slender necks, like brittle coppice gates.

20

A lone plough tills a moonless sky. Votive seeds sewn once more with ash-white dust on February’s caustic, elongated breaths. Crows carry a portentous look. Late August: we tied six roses to the wall with an expectant love but faded blood heralds nothing new. ©Thomas Gabriel

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Feb 11, 2012

Feb 11, 2012 at 9:56 AM UTC

February 11

A lone plough tills a moonless sky. Votive seeds sewn once more with ash-white dust on February’s caustic, elongated breaths. Crows carry a portentous look. Late August: we tied six roses to the wall with an expectant love but faded blood heralds nothing new. ©Thomas Gabriel

13

A brightness bathed the night: Spectral corollas flecked the slick, Damp sea – shoals of languid light Mourned in planetary shadow play. Bloodless bronze effigy, Son of Sirius, hastened earthward From the jaw of an untamed brute: Swathed in an amorphous, turbid Cloth, he fell – stark as crimson Amid the dull, wan air. A death Most uncouth: lain now on a pillow Of galling shell and abrasive flesh. A rare trinket plucked for my memory. ©Thomas Gabriel

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Jan 29, 2012

Jan 29, 2012 at 7:38 PM UTC

Son of Sirius.

A brightness bathed the night: Spectral corollas flecked the slick, Damp sea – shoals of languid light Mourned in planetary shadow play. Bloodless bronze effigy, Son of Sirius, hastened earthward From the jaw of an untamed brute: Swathed in an amorphous, turbid Cloth, he fell – stark as crimson Amid the dull, wan air. A death Most uncouth: lain now on a pillow Of galling shell and abrasive flesh. A rare trinket plucked for my memory. ©Thomas Gabriel

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