Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mark Nelson Sep 2010
His garb was not spectacular,his shoes were grey and worn;

his hair was longer than a mere crewcut.

His nails were very *****,

his veins were free of needles-

and his face shone bright red

in the misty sunlight.


He greeted the sky with a wail of delight,

and the hearts of passers began to throb.

Summer and autumn were remarried in an embrace of generous hope,

throbbing airwaves,tapping feet,delighted smiles.



And then along came a citizen,politically correct;

oh so relevant,barely tolerant ,emancipator.

With a fuzz of of ***** gray

a salloween expressive nosegay-

A mission to expunge the infiltrator!



He was busy with his flute;

he could not practise,he said

"I only live two hundred yards away.

You must cease and leave this place

you do not fit here in this race-

ABANDON this ridiculous idea!"


So,the stopwatch was set;

the 'half hour rule' began to reign:

And the police turned up

after merely twenty minutes!

Nelson's watch saved the day

"take another twenty"They did say

and our liberator slunk away

unfairly treated.



Though earth on heel and

sky on neck:Lovers'

authentic myth

outshining heaven:

a piper
on a bridge

unsheathed

across

the Ij


A klted
magpie.

unswathed

the lay

fairly

greeted
true story ,amsterdam 1994 .
Mark Nelson Sep 2010
Willow herb floating

on silent certainty

ashes of sighs


not fleeting,

unvapoured on the

blossom of the rain,

I am too light to

pull or push

the swing of delight

through this land.




The rain left me for a

while

sun unshielding

-a thousand widows

more unyielding than the depths . .

Once shadowed whisperers

of delight,gossamer

sparkling , descending

their chains

of necromantic hope.





Lilith is no night owl

she is mother, eve

and my becoming:

sweet earth spun

at once ,

exhaling her .





The see saw

bumped gently

on my chin

it is a most gentle

form of awakening.




The silence bore no whispers

till sinking through the quicksand

-or was it quicksilver?

-in any case I could smell little

in my amniotic amnesia.

I made ten thousand friends,till their soap

made this place clean.



Is this a seed or a dying

hopefulness

-is my sallow sowing

beyond all shores of

reproduction;

a reflection of the child

they dared not bear?



Is my last breath like this

a forgotton yielding

will they catch me

as I fall ?

-(sweet earth)-



This moth of my ending,

a shallow recantation,

my fears-

their memories, mere

testubes of

stylish hope .





I breathe the elegant stare

you have forgotten .

Once more free

from such

rememberance






I need not ,

remained not ,

your imploded ,

wakefulness .





A thousand pardons

exhaled like silk

entwining

an unfinished race

spider of a thousand eyes .



One may say

I was

stared

to death

but surrogate air

mocks childish pity.



Taut refelexions

bear salt echoes

in silk convulsions

fresh water

a veneered hope .



Easier in death than life

is a child's sorrowed

partings ,

the illusion of

bouyancy

rippled tides

unfelt.



The oceans have not enough salt

for such shrunken sorrow.

if we could but once

have shared

unbreathed aspersion .



The room has come and gone

the pillow quite undry

unforgotten

unremembered.

A web untouched
2003. Tribute to Christina Lothian english teacher ,ended her life in the river Ayr ,in the embrace of another woman .They jumped together.I found out 30 years too late.
Mark Nelson Sep 2010
When we awake from the mist

I am in shadow,

the perambulance of

grief revisited,

till the lengthening toombstone

dwarfs hyperion-

a sculptors cast ,my shell my heart




The gestapo of faith revisited

that others may from my net

Dream sweet prision free-

psychedelic arrest eclipsing

aeons lost fears.



The secret of the hate filled chamber

green gas ,green light &

mercy all,

cracking under boot

ribs target

sheltering from a fathers love.







Were you or I to slumber

nor stir in walking shade

what nets of love entomb us

lest we rise-
the shining ,the living yet are gone

earth's first wake





Yet quickened beyond eyes recognition

The silver sash my silence brings;

a field soughed deep and empty

a fitting palace

for a king

The denseless hollows of my tears

or yet unvapoured from the ground

the shadow of the sky appears

enshrined

in rainbow's fallen glass.




If a child is not a fallen god

- why so unquiet and shallow the grave

that holds the brave emancipator

in such a gentle grasp .




Till in death we meet asunder

apart can never live

a blossom as in winter hangs its head

so a laurel wreath astutely made our measure

must be cast...
1993

— The End —