rising wind
the harvester leaves
a quiet cornfield

barflies brood

the dank light

the annoying drunk mutters on

swipes the drool

"no one listens anymore"

I don't care enough

to rattle my pocket

for his troubles

or I'd break his gob

that slurs a child

"*******"

just for something to do

Now and then the thought occurs
That I should get away
But no,  it's not this place I'd flee
it's me, the one who fails.
As if some thousand miles could free
my being from my soul.
Yet something yearns within me now
Whether wrong or right
To bury past and present here
And be gone into the night

haikus
sheeps and cattles
eating grassesss

Shush !

no more words

my love

we died
you and I
parted
for eternal isolation
within an abyss
of never
a thought vacuum
numb
sterile
if only
we
could know this
together
it would be bliss

The gallery is closing now
but Monet has only begun to seep in
dripping through my imagination
one colour, countless tones
a blue myriad crystallised
his world breathe to life, the essence distilled
harmonised and something that binds it all
in eternal stillness
content, accepting of all things
its own being, its own passing

I do not exist there yet
but winter's tingling freshness tastes me
swallows me through pores, filling me
with a thirst to drink more deeply
more deeply, more . . . the chill
the only movement, silence
foot-stepping in the  sunlit snow
of blinding light. On the right
cocooned, two feet deep, a cottage
its cosy creaking darkness hibernates
no smoke from the chimney
but perhaps a fire built, split logs waiting
for a spark to release their stores of sun

“The gallery is closing!” the guard says
him and I the only ones?
I take my bag, glancing at the painting…
there in the mountains
I think someone is coming down,
coming home, they will be cold and hungry
wanting to be home by nightfall…
but for now they drink deeply
up in the blue light.