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 Aug 2017 SK O'Sullivan
L B
River bamboo arrayed in lace tiers
consoles the birdbath on its loss of robins
Intemperate August staggers in liquored air
of wavery heat and layered sighs

Leaves relinquish their rush
toward this “ripe on time”
Blackberry brambles have ceased to reach
now bow to ponder their plunder
while petunias, those bold delinquents!
bloom as if the frost’s lethal cling
were some myth
the antique roses had made up

Bud, bloom, revive!
See the generation of the bee!
Bud, bloom, survive—
to do it all again
for the single sake...
of treasuring beginning in the end...

Her bicycle, my geranium
have found eternity together
on the sun spattered patio

She—
opens the screen door
as I—
climb the morning stairs
She—
squints smiles amongst sleepy freckles
who has not brushed her hair
in a late August moment of not caring

And I know it will all happen anyway
no matter what I do....
...And it has happened-- my daughters grown and gone... the wonderful home along the river, torn down for the building of a levee.  I'm glad I wrote this-- like a bookmark among so many memories.
At times the soul gets clenched
in an unspeakable grief
In a demoniac grip, it chokes and wriggles
The pain of being stung by a dozen scorpions
or hacked piece by piece by an axe

Tremulous grows the heart, over love that is spent
Seeks in vain to revive the joy that is gone
Strains to lift up the veil that darkens the soul
Wrestles to come out from the desolate cave of black solitude
The more it struggles to wade through the mess
the deeper it plunges into the morass of despair
Clung on talons of excruciating pain,
wailing a long wail of never being understood
the mind goes berserk
whirling and churning.

Anytime the volcano might erupt
emitting fumes of sulphurous smoke  
with asphalt lava, spilling out,
blowing life with its violent breath.
There are dark moments in everybody's life! Life is one of light and shade..... !
When  you  are  young.
The  village  seems  only
one  field  away.
You  can  skip  it  in  no  time.

Middle  aged  it  feels
two  fields  away.
And  is  getting  a  bit  
of  a  bore.

When  you  are  old
it  seems  like  three  fields
Almost  Impossible  to  walk.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2017.
"where day is.... dreams of a summer sky."

i.

the sky floats up,
gazing out with lips
of steel, a
shiny branch
surrendering
to summer’s sigh,
her iris a cats
eye, marble blue,
her pupil a dark
wand.

ii.

play with me,
draw me out of the
dark,

let me sing to
you a sea-song
where the waves
somersault and
crash to the shore,

where the wind, wild
as wild, faints to breathe
the wakening sky.

iii.

see how i write in passages,
faint-waves  of
summer’s mists where
the rain dips her pen in
the grey-ink cloud.

iv.

searching for your ghosts,
the deep whirling of the streamy sea
with its wine-red roses like
coloured glass
dance as i gather
whispers of strangeness
and sun, blossoming,
shrink-edged like an
opalescent pool, all
of it, you.

v.

days of watery rags and rubber
tyres, red snake of
summer’s ribs, the
stones of the stormy sun,
gathering the landscape
where tonight the
moon will rise for love
you will loosen my hair
and i will kiss your throat.
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