tim-deere-jones - Hello Poetry

A roof in its building is a cage in the air, enclosing aspiration with timber bars that are gold in the sun. Seen from inside it’s a web made by men for their own capture who clamber carefully across it clinging against blue where buzzards hang and seagulls call. Slowly we close it with battens and felt, hammer blows ring in the place below. Strip by strip and section by section we darken the space enclosing eventually nothing but gloom wherein lives only an echo which they will **** when they bring in possessions. Finally the grey slates, the blue and the purple sealing a tomb through which will not move the scents and the sounds of the wandering wind. Thus it is bound, that place. Cut off forever and lost to the world.

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Apr 7, 2021

Apr 7, 2021 at 4:11 AM UTC

Building the Roof

A roof in its building is a cage in the air, enclosing aspiration with timber bars that are gold in the sun. Seen from inside it’s a web made by men for their own capture who clamber carefully across it clinging against blue where buzzards hang and seagulls call. Slowly we close it with battens and felt, hammer blows ring in the place below. Strip by strip and section by section we darken the space enclosing eventually nothing but gloom wherein lives only an echo which they will **** when they bring in possessions. Finally the grey slates, the blue and the purple sealing a tomb through which will not move the scents and the sounds of the wandering wind. Thus it is bound, that place. Cut off forever and lost to the world.

19

When he’d resisted he thought he’d laid his claim upon it forever and secure. Not this alone but also that he’d made a judgement for them both. Imagine then his horror when she ate the fruit he had refused, chewed up that flesh, drank of that dripping juice, devoured the skin and swallowed all the seed within. Yet worse was to come! for some time around dusk, when the light was unsure and he waited for lightning to strike her, he saw she’d become a tree too, many branched, complexed with blossom, growing tall and bearing rich fruit of her own.

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Apr 7, 2021

Apr 7, 2021 at 4:09 AM UTC

The Apple in the Garden

When he’d resisted he thought he’d laid his claim upon it forever and secure. Not this alone but also that he’d made a judgement for them both. Imagine then his horror when she ate the fruit he had refused, chewed up that flesh, drank of that dripping juice, devoured the skin and swallowed all the seed within. Yet worse was to come! for some time around dusk, when the light was unsure and he waited for lightning to strike her, he saw she’d become a tree too, many branched, complexed with blossom, growing tall and bearing rich fruit of her own.

15

In the wind from the sea my house was a singing throat last night. Bass drone in chimney flue and round the gable end and those vibrating window panes, thin wandering harmonics between the doors and frames. Percussion of unseen things a-rolling and a-roiling in the world outside. A troop of intermittent gallopers trampling through the dark musketry of rain upon the roof cracking of wind’s whip. Waking to the morning, exhausted from the listening it is as if the wild hunt had past us gone overrode us as we cowering sought for sleep laid waste our garden’s order broken down the daffodils and snowdrops that we’d cherished as the harbingers of spring. Kicked flowerpots and water cans around and flattened fences made the hedges look as if they had been backwards dragged Carefully I prised my front door open pushed aside the debris that had been cast upon my threshold but they had gone and all was calm one robin in the silver birch sang clear and sweet and unconcerned a film of salt, dried tears, upon the window’s glass.

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Apr 7, 2021

Apr 7, 2021 at 4:06 AM UTC

Storm from the sea

In the wind from the sea my house was a singing throat last night. Bass drone in chimney flue and round the gable end and those vibrating window panes, thin wandering harmonics between the doors and frames. Percussion of unseen things a-rolling and a-roiling in the world outside. A troop of intermittent gallopers trampling through the dark musketry of rain upon the roof cracking of wind’s whip. Waking to the morning, exhausted from the listening it is as if the wild hunt had past us gone overrode us as we cowering sought for sleep laid waste our garden’s order broken down the daffodils and snowdrops that we’d cherished as the harbingers of spring. Kicked flowerpots and water cans around and flattened fences made the hedges look as if they had been backwards dragged Carefully I prised my front door open pushed aside the debris that had been cast upon my threshold but they had gone and all was calm one robin in the silver birch sang clear and sweet and unconcerned a film of salt, dried tears, upon the window’s glass.

24

Hawthorn in the spring mayflowers becomes **** thorn rimed with the frost of her blossom. Promiscuous with bees hawthorn grows fast in the summer straining for sky and full of life green leaf abundance and sap surging strong for the sun quick as opposed to dead Quick thorn in autumn scatters her largesse of leaf fall embers the hedgerows with blood drops seed store mouse nibble food for redwing and fieldfare Quick thorn in winter stripped of her green stands naked but strong combing cold winds (which you can hear sing through her teeth) her branches armed and spiky fingers flung up in derision at the north and darkness for nothing keeps her down she will keep coming.

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Apr 7, 2021

Apr 7, 2021 at 3:50 AM UTC

HAWTHORN

Hawthorn in the spring mayflowers becomes **** thorn rimed with the frost of her blossom. Promiscuous with bees hawthorn grows fast in the summer straining for sky and full of life green leaf abundance and sap surging strong for the sun quick as opposed to dead Quick thorn in autumn scatters her largesse of leaf fall embers the hedgerows with blood drops seed store mouse nibble food for redwing and fieldfare Quick thorn in winter stripped of her green stands naked but strong combing cold winds (which you can hear sing through her teeth) her branches armed and spiky fingers flung up in derision at the north and darkness for nothing keeps her down she will keep coming.

23

Cresting the swell as drops from the paddle blade draw spirals and knotwork where sea herd’s shoulders force through the narrows and turbulence and overfalls ferment the sea which bubbles and fizzes Canoeing on champagne with fish leaping up from it, gulls planing down in a white double helix for fry, I ride the flood, past the Priest’s Nose and into the Bay!

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Feb 22, 2021

Feb 22, 2021 at 10:59 AM UTC

PASSING THE HEADLAND

Cresting the swell as drops from the paddle blade draw spirals and knotwork where sea herd’s shoulders force through the narrows and turbulence and overfalls ferment the sea which bubbles and fizzes Canoeing on champagne with fish leaping up from it, gulls planing down in a white double helix for fry, I ride the flood, past the Priest’s Nose and into the Bay!

15

Up’s down in the cold cwm Where corries calm lake Mirrors cloud piercing peak Bright moon and star stud sky one fox calls through frost still night no answer comes Wind gifts bloom blizzard petal storms blackthorn flower Short shrifts shard shower

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Feb 22, 2021

Feb 22, 2021 at 10:55 AM UTC

Spring Haikus

Up’s down in the cold cwm Where corries calm lake Mirrors cloud piercing peak Bright moon and star stud sky one fox calls through frost still night no answer comes Wind gifts bloom blizzard petal storms blackthorn flower Short shrifts shard shower

9

I climb great Moelfre, the old Broad Hill and pass that house they called Golgotha, the place of skulls abandoned in some migration mania of centuries gone by. A blasted house, skull pan of roof blown away, windows out to make those hollow sockets where the wind goes through and up beyond those last and sheltered walls, where only wire trawls the wind, sets net and barbs to hold the shot dog flung across, makes catch and food for flights of crows who rise and curse my coming to their feast. That last trek was trial indeed. Why take a sullen soul up there for solace? Ruts in the track were rivers which would sweep me down, knuckles of rain in my face forced humble genuflection to the wind and storm. A Bronze Age cairn upon the crown. That place of dead with wet grey stones, its white crystal blocks where grinning teeth ****** out of mud. Its entombed death more permanent than life, but yet, I felt that wind and rain, my heart was pumping, my face was raw, my shoes were soaked, I had a thousand feet of earth beneath my feet and I knew it! I was still here!!

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Feb 21, 2021

Feb 21, 2021 at 12:17 PM UTC

SEEKING TO ESCAPE MYSELF

I climb great Moelfre, the old Broad Hill and pass that house they called Golgotha, the place of skulls abandoned in some migration mania of centuries gone by. A blasted house, skull pan of roof blown away, windows out to make those hollow sockets where the wind goes through and up beyond those last and sheltered walls, where only wire trawls the wind, sets net and barbs to hold the shot dog flung across, makes catch and food for flights of crows who rise and curse my coming to their feast. That last trek was trial indeed. Why take a sullen soul up there for solace? Ruts in the track were rivers which would sweep me down, knuckles of rain in my face forced humble genuflection to the wind and storm. A Bronze Age cairn upon the crown. That place of dead with wet grey stones, its white crystal blocks where grinning teeth ****** out of mud. Its entombed death more permanent than life, but yet, I felt that wind and rain, my heart was pumping, my face was raw, my shoes were soaked, I had a thousand feet of earth beneath my feet and I knew it! I was still here!!

26

Trout in the pool grew fat in the shadows under the branches, then I cut down the sycamores. Down came the heron grey cloaked up to his knees there bent and carrying dusk on his back

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Feb 19, 2021

Feb 19, 2021 at 4:35 AM UTC

The Heron

Trout in the pool grew fat in the shadows under the branches, then I cut down the sycamores. Down came the heron grey cloaked up to his knees there bent and carrying dusk on his back

9

Gorse is fierce for despite her soft lips yellow pouting and smelling of nuts (a sweet wise smell) she nevertheless savaged my nose with her sharp green teeth when I bent to partake

0

Feb 19, 2021

Feb 19, 2021 at 4:33 AM UTC

Gorse

Gorse is fierce for despite her soft lips yellow pouting and smelling of nuts (a sweet wise smell) she nevertheless savaged my nose with her sharp green teeth when I bent to partake

8

Dear dog: it may be suggested I write on paper of rice the better to be digested since your critique's so nice I notice you baulked at the stamp. Should I enclose a bone with future submissions begged from my midnight lamp? I suppose it could have been worse, at least the dog has devoured my verse!

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Feb 17, 2021

Feb 17, 2021 at 7:06 AM UTC

Submission to Editor

Dear dog: it may be suggested I write on paper of rice the better to be digested since your critique's so nice I notice you baulked at the stamp. Should I enclose a bone with future submissions begged from my midnight lamp? I suppose it could have been worse, at least the dog has devoured my verse!

10