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 May 2014 Cynthia Thompson
irinia
ask your blood
your limbs, your breathing feet
what Poetry is -
a phylogenetic anomaly
in light’s discontinuity

or just…
the strange yearning of hematopoiesis

ask the silence in your lungs
the bursting DNA, reinterpreted
how it allures memory inside your bones
how it treads conventions of sleep
with the weight of a sigh

if you ask me
what Poetry is
I’d say: breath calligraphy
a winged dream of depth
on enchanted retina
the bitter-sweet art of airy harmony

ask your hands
what Poetry is
perhaps they’ll take a moment
to bloom
My eyes saw you hide behind a flower,
Reproved between the blades;
Wizened and withered by your touch,
Your dream has surely failed.

You strutted on a high wire,
Got lost in paradise;
Your pirouette on the stairs,
Was a step with every lie.

Self-fashioned on a bleeding picture,
You knew the world was stained;
Your sweat proclaimed with licks,
And a self-sustaining brain.

Who could answer all the calls
Those infernal internal rings;
The boy outside was looking,
Planning heinous sins.

You stropped a spoon with her eyes,
But who was really blind;
She treaded in a sea of blood,
You spooned her brain and mind.

Play your guitar in blissful darkness,
In a single-lighted room;
Your poems have finally flickered,
With that action all too soon.

I see petals hoover yet,
Indifferent, no appeal;
My fingers curl when I touch
A thing you'll never feel.
It was the cheap Polish coal
Sweeping down from chimney and slate,
Staining windows, levelling off
At doors, settling on walks
Where evidence showed me hurrying
To my bed-sitting room
In prints of snow and soot.
The roses dipped,
Foxgloves closed
Against the odour.

It was the kitchen.
Tomatoes, carrots, onions
Slicing vaporous air hanging
Veil-like on dark windows.

I coughed.
Too many cigarettes?
My nose bled.
I pulled out a hankie
And coughed again.
When I removed my coat
My eyes were red.
You'd notice.

Perhaps it was a combination .
You knew my eyes.

Weeks are still less tolerable.
Smoke, soot, salads,
Which really doesn't matter,
Strangely mix, tossing  off our years.
Cheap Polish coal. **** cheap Polish coal.
Wexford, Ireland.
Words can cause so much pain, content
Why? They are only letters in arrangements.
Who should decide the child's rights
Who should decide what they hate or like
Who should decide what is best or all-right
Is it grey or black and white?
What if his hand I never hold?
What if them three words I'm never told?
What if he will never be mine?
What if I am wasting my time?
Maybe he sees someone as I see him
Through misinterpreted signals I swim
Further and further into this daze
His heart the treasure and his words a maze
So I run as quick as my tired legs will go
Oh how did I ever sink this low?
goodnight
old girl
goodnight, to you,
you
quiet house,
you
blessed home.

are you glad to see
another day done?
within yourself, your hidden recessed places,

are you sighing in relief  as we settle safe in our beds.

your present loves,
all accounted for,
sleeping within your
teak and nail embrace.
or do you prefer,

the drumming of our feet, the hum of activity,
of when we are awake,
and bustling and bumping, about your frame?

or is it best,
when we leave you,
silent and alone
to contemplate,
in the sun and wind
on a work day?

my lord, the secrets
you must keep, the lifes,
that you have held close behind these old walls.

you must groan and cry,        
with the weight of some memories,
yet, others cause
you to smile and sigh
in near-miss relief.

you have stood strong
and sturdy, for almost
one hundred years,
in one form or another,
your girth has expanded, with the growth of family, from farmer's cottage,
to three bed, with study
and nannexe, out the back. you have been all but knocked down, rebuilt, reworked and restored,
to former glory.

you have withstood,
the element's rage
and time's insipid attempts, to shift you,
from your place,
upon the cliffshead.
you have, and do,
do well, to hold us
all within.

and now, just,
before i sleep,
i want to thank you
old girl, for the way,
you keep us, warm,
protected and together.
glad to be back in the old  homestead.... even as she cracks and creaks, complaining about the cold
With a joint in the ashtray
and a pen in my hand
I travel through vapours
to my neverland
awareness fades slowly
to the drum beating time
as I float, now enraptured
slow-captured, sublime.
Where I am an island
no hurt at my shore
here grief doesn't beckon
'cause I love you no more
but deep in minds shadows
l feel you draw near
my bringer of sadness
sweet wringer of tears
I hear your dark whispers
rekindling our ties
I'm fighting, freefalling
through love laden lies.
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