His Star.

I chased this evening
evening's fade in sunset clouds,
silver tin-foiled filigree
tied to grey-as-granite mountains.

Tinted skirts of hazy
daytime's late farewell lit night's
ballooning moon parade
displayed as fire on quiet shoreline.

Invasive scarlet-swathe
hued day's best forgotten noon
when darker stronghold's rain
rolled dust-cascades forming gloom.

Drifted with waning sky's
azure came memory's beams,
pain-shot their spotlighting
shadows still haunting my dreams.

Yet I chased tonight
night's demons away by love's
recall when I saw brighter
his star winking at me from above.

The Farside's Face.

The wish of a painter or poet is to transport
the spirit's deep emotion by pausing
in awe at day or night's high-vaulted scene,
transposing its  beauty to dreams,

then viewing grass as more than green.

An alchemist with no interest in gold
invests time between folds,
finds in the sky thermals on which

to soar on fancy or some surreal whim
to make jasper of sea,  jade of dawn


and perceive gems hidden in flora's form.

A seer catches the farside's face
and traces that world in sentence or paint,
chimeric in nature an artist
whose eye encounters rock gives it heart,
transforms by description  
accepted mundane into mystic meaning,
adds soft to feather, colour to blur


and improves the initial by seeing further.

It is said that fine art opens doors
to show the extraordinary as but normal,
for the good poet or painter
ranks as foremost importance a felt magic


when met with empty paper or canvas.

Inviting.

The thin blue flame in my night-burnt fire
grows dim as dawn unquiets
another day's numberless happenings,
culls light from dark and carries
life forward while I, in sated mood, watch
first ***** in sparrowed pools lost
on those still bedded and fastened to sleep,
hear Spring-born lambs' early bleat,
smell warming grass dewed with new morning
and catch first breeze stirring shored
boats as sand twirls grasses in shivering dunes.
Unlatched my window wafts lures
to ****** some moments of closer approach
as closeted dawn opens
eyes and secretes rising smoke on sun's thaw
inviting a barefoot cavort
to wild-life's awesome nature, all on my own.

Battling.

   The poem,
     half-written, inches
along numerous tries,
   cramped in places, pinched
   somewhat in style,
its subjective meaning
reluctantly waits
    in the sidelines.
   Silence
  has not appeared yet
    so I put aside pen
to try later again.
Tenderness, sadness or rage
   cannot be paged
    in too much noise
but former things sundered
   begin to knit
    as subject-choice fits
into a slot before long.
  Boisterous word-swing
rattles a lot in my mind,
    sentencing rings
  bells which battle with lines
as ends slowly begin to rhyme.
   Writing is vital
   in keeping me sane
   betwixt times
   that mix sense with the inane.

Facing It.

Lonely black places engulfing the mind
in caverns of glistening fear.
Phantoms arising from pleasanter times
tauntingly whisper his name in my ear.

Afraid of seeing that smile in my dreams
willingly I lie awake.
Facing relentless ticking of clock keeps
me clocking minutes for sanity's sake.

Ducking below lonely duvet once more,
with broken resolve it is plain.
Sobs fill the space of what life has in store
which will undeniably not be the same.

Words sit in succession inside my head,
spelling clearly the fact he is gone.
But half-empty cupboards untidily left
beg me soon to dry tears and move on.

Never Again.

Never this day again,
never this moment of potent sensation.

Air of sharp crystalline
will not again invade this exact skyline.

The same sun's high display
will never perform this grandeur again.

Not again this daytime
when whirling seagulls hunt high tide.

No more this moment's sheen
diamantéing each ripple over the sea.

Never again this morning
when quiet eats into sound and form.

Nature's speech, in this second
only, will never be bettered for effect.