A poet's pen
Drips ink, pools
Of blue
Stained shirt sleeves
A pale nose, bridge pinched
Once or twice, too hard
A dash of color
On the very tip
Where the writer fell asleep
For the first time
In a long time
His eyes would not weep
But his pen
Would do that
For him

Oh no, wanderlust!
You have broadened into space -
I can't afford that.

He claims thalassophobia
But explores in the deep
And relaxes in quiet certainty
The words that he should keep
For red from his heart, and blue
From his ocean
Combine in a muddle, a puddled
Emotion
What is it to crave?
An armour man in gold?
A wooden-fence, black silence,
A bearded, hat, high, old?

Maybe just a snifter smells
Or the ringing of a wondrous bell
Can find purchase in its soil
For my hands are cupped
I'm lapping up
The rain for milk has spoiled

Here, the crow lies -
he has been hit, baptised
in stone

Set

Like salt
In a pillar, enveloped
They've never seen
life more still

Or a statue so developed
A shockwave has struck
The crow in the breast
He was small

Very small

Ill-tempered -
to put it best

But now eternal
Until
the universe doth claim
His wings and his beak
To be one
once
again

Had there been a pipe *****
Where the melancholia sits
It would have played
Instead
It felt glass between its teeth
And grasped
The hairs in its head
Danced within
The room of the dead
Shadows friendly, alive with dread
While vultures laughed
Kicking away
The offal, the bread
They wanted
its bones to pick
Instead

Azure mixed with red
Wine stains ripple the oceans -
Black pen shining through

The marina was lifeless -
just boats, no captains
It was cold, but
nice - you and I

Like a campfire, maybe
Except you didn't smell
like lapsang souchong tea
More like honey, something

sweet, like devil's cake baking
Your touch - an equatorial sunbeam
It burnt, but I think the tan
looks good