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Conor Jul 2012
Orange Loom you leave again,
conflating royal blue and red,
calm and warm like an old friend,
but you were grey once.
Your yellow lilt is surely just a show;
an ephemeral, vestigial truth.

Is that you, brooding on the horizon,
pausing for your latest audience?
Your powerful symphony flirts
with your stagnant players;
a panoply of mountains
-expounding their own soliloquies-
and trees as straw-roofed bungalows.
The ocean floods your eloquence,
like an impending harbinger speech.

Your tame light evokes an urge,
something Great, magnificent and pure,
but you will return in time again.
Some will wait but all will learn;
your author's notes, or are they burned?
Conor Jul 2012
I need a pen
- to finish with words
the perfect day
you gave to me -
like the fare we paid
in the taxi, where
you poured out your heart,
on July first.
Your currency was love.
Conor Feb 2012
Face-paint and a checklist set,
Routine tricks and heart that beats.
Innocence pleased and wonder shared,
With coupled hands and vision blurred.

Coloured fortune masquerades,
As crinkled eyes remember well.
Lithesome youth brings light to shade,
Stifles dark and empty days.
Box and hats exaggerate,
Buttons broken call to mind.
Praise for present details found,
In simple cues and objects round.

Silence weeps in lonesome ease,
Of home and tears that shed.
Weary in his aging skin,
His mind will rest free of sin.
Conor Feb 2012
In dried-out marsh where footsteps lie,
Tracing steps and feet before,
Broken fence and ragged wire,
Brook and grass and harmony.

A field across the orange blaze,
Faithful cracks, surrendered branch,
Dimly grained and bowed in green,
Earth and hooves, informal dance.

A gallop halts in open air,
Squared, and chest apparent,
Perfect as my counted steps,
Alone he stands in distant stare.

A moment still I hold my breath,
Fixed and strong, he’s caught my track,
Hazel backed and scars to bare,
Solemn in a fragile glow.

Content in wayward solitude,
He does not trust my path,
Dark brown eyes and pointed pride,
Yearning for the evergreen.

In greying tips he stands his ground,
Loyal to the days gone by,
Speckled spots of brown and black,
A primal thud of cloven foot.

Stooped and still I hold his gaze,
Eagle-eyed he grants me time,
He listens fair with velvet edge,
And sees my flaws through dusty light.

A broken twig- he’s on his way-
Prancing through the deadened leaves,
Muscled buck and arrow flow,
Fluent as the river ebb.

My lens will capture sight and time,
But feeling, sounds and moments shared,
Something I would rather keep,
In mind and memory before I sleep.
Conor Feb 2012
Is it that they’ve played their part,
The mountain ranges torn apart,            
By men, so willing to bless the sun,
Who part the ground on which it dawns

Is it that they host the stage,
Where beckoned by our constant past,
We tremble in our long for change,
And live and wish, and venture vast.

Is it that the sun will shine,      
And let us seek our own despair,                              
On broken views to which we dine,
That e’er they wonder how we share.        
Is it that they mourn their wounds,
When sun it hides behind their grain,                                
And we don’t see the cracks that loom,
But shout of wind and sun and rain.

Is it that the trees they trust,
Lumber in the dark of night,
Or eavesdrop on our songs of dust,
And wait to end such a plight.

Is it that long ago,
They answered us in strength and tone,
And left their thoughts for soil to sow,
Majestic in their fallen know.
Is it that year on year,
They flourish in the frames of time,                
To make their message bright and clear,
And show us not to be sublime.

Or are they gracious,
For their mystery tried,                                      
And lodged, in the scorns of clocks,                          
And ticks and tocks, and ticks and tocks.
Conor Feb 2012
The frosty carpet grass sticks,
Unforgivingly, beneath my feet.
The sharp fresh air flatters my lungs.
But for a cold, modest breeze, the air holds still.

I can almost smell it.

Winter’s careful workings,
Its gentle, passive movements,
Play with nature’s purpose,
Unfazed by wind or opinion.

A simple calling,
As if awaiting something grand,
Lingering with patience, feathery leaves,
Delicate notes from a lonely sky.
Conor Feb 2012
The well of the cup,

Gripped by tired hands,

That mixes memories and regrets,

In its bottomless end.

Its still, brown reflection of eyes,

Bears a gentle acknowledgement,

To a tired soul.

— The End —