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FALLING INTO THE PAST

the tick tick of the bike
a dog barks
letter on a Welcome mat

the midnight tick of time
the house sighs
Dad's whistle

ambushed by the smell
of honeysuckle
I fall into the Past

red barn
blue sky
a summer to last forever

Caruso 78
I listen to the scratches
like Time trying to sing along

I kiss the whorl
of a fingertip then
the all of you

your body
drifting away from me
on a tide of hurt

'I don't like the way
your eyes
touch me! '

starlings fly up
I walk upon close bitten grass
a sheep laughs

a car rusts on the beach
the roofless house
looks out to sea

the sea is sleeping
I watch it breathing
wonder what it's dreaming

the house hunkers down
its window eyes
gaze upon the coming storm

crouching under a cloud
a mountain
frightened by the storm

walking upon
the meniscus of sleep
unable to dive in

& here you are
years later looking like
an out of focus photo of your self

*

I was going on with the details she told me about...the break up with her husband and all the things she saw when it was happening and burned themselves into her mind. Then years years later I discover the photograph of her then and the photograph contains some of those details. She is out of focus because she doesn't want to be in the photo and moves away just as the shutter is clicked. So we too step out of the poem and her life. All the details mean something to me as I can still hear them all in her voice....the little details that she observed through her tears. Now when she has died and the photo turns up I can tie together all she told me and all what the photo contains and marry them together to tell more of her story. He had cheated on her and she was heartbroken and couldn't stand his presence. Meanwhile the ordinary world still goes on despite her heartbreak and her life about to change. She was kissing his fingertips and then kissing him more and more when he suddenly blurted out that he had had an affair but that it was all over now and it didn't mean anything. But she couldn't live with that. When I came to write it I mostly remembered all the details she told me about rather than the complete whole story and that is what my mind latched onto. If I wrote it today I would probably come in on a different trajectory and it would be a completely different poem and made entirely different choices. But I like what I have captured here and it is more closer to her perception of how it all panned out. It was her voice and I only shaped it into the poem trying to retain her sense of it all. The last verse is my discovering the photograph and all the grief I experienced on seeing what was once only a voice talking to me in the night and crying and crying as she went over all the details again and again.
Slowly slips the light of day
Across the rim of ridge, at play.

Golden in its cadenced glow
Deep ochre 'neath the bridge, below.

A fillagree of forfeiture when misting intervenes
Alas, the frolic interplay deploys her in the in-betweens.

Shadows cut by sunlight in a deftly hewn montage
Where the heft becomes the hewn and the hewn the **** fromage?

Interspersed, a flicker in the foliage on the mound
As to toy with the gestation of illumination's sound.....

A devastating show on the rim of ridge at play,
With the sinking of the sunlight in the orchestra of day.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
A thematic interplay of permanence and transience...an orchestral metaphor which elevates landscape to a stage where the magnificence of the light conducts its final act, a weight beyond the visual, a reckoning, a farewell
You know what I find a mystery
How we all see things differently
Right in front of both our eyes
I see truth while you see lies

Could it be our upbringing
That helps us see the way we see
Gives us different points of view
Where I see lies and you see truth

Were we not caught in mid-blink
When we all saw the same thing
This might be the great divide
I see wrong while you see right

It's as good as guessing gets
Exactly how our brains process
Does anyone know what's going on
Where I see right and you see wrong

Willing to die upon this hill
Whoever has the strongest will
Under the sun there's nothing new
I see lies while you see truth

All depends on where you lean
With our thoughts on reckoning
Whatever will we ever do
Where you see lies and I see truth
In the hush between raindrops and stone, the hills lean inward, as if listening for a voice that never returned.

Low clouds drag their grief across the shoulders of the land, a soft lament in vapor, layered like old letters, unsent.

The trees don't speak— but their silence is fluent, a language of absence etched in shadow and bark.

The sorrow here doesn't weep, it settles in the terrain like ash from a fire no one recalls lighting.

A tragedy, perhaps, of the forgotten— the slow erosion of faces from stone, the fading of footsteps into deep green moss.

And still, the wind carries a lament— a breath, a whisper, a suggestion that the past is not past, it merely sleeps beneath the skeins of brooding, hung cloud.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
A dedication to Agnes de Lods’ beautiful, "Raindrops in Schreiberhau" .... a modern artwork of this tradition of verse that echoes the patina of the past. Her lines:

“I drink the peace, I eat the rustle of the wind, Absorbing the steady pattern of raindrops…”

…feel like a continuation of the region’s artistic soul—where nature, memory, and longing converge.
so, we all, grand and great nieces and nephews,
aunts and baby, fathers and mothers, nanas & poppys;
pick your preferred identifier; gather round to worship
him, but end of day, color us tired, and early to book & to bed

long drive, long day, to get to our
tiny slice of heaven on earth, a
no-points-required destination,
and the baby, with his roly~poly effervescent
charms and delights; oh boy! he's going to be
trouble for the ladies later in life;

he's a sound sleeper; twice-a-day napper;
great eater, and I inquire to the sky, can I?
order half a dozen more on Amazon,
exactly the same? is there any limit at all?

but its 3:56 am, the new master is fast asleep, the
funny smelling old man, tiptoes to the sunroom
sanctuary, bursting with three, count-'em three,
poem hooks in his convection invention mind

and now that the artisanal dishwasher, that's him~too,
is done, his two loads, yet he awakes to put the urgencies.
to bed, write his thank you note poems to his fellow poets
for gifting him insights and of fig tarts pies, that are
invading his head,
     yet to to be,
written, including this child's future,
who he, will write by himself

and this little ditty, though pretty, is just an appetizer,
to a beautiful life ahead, and substantive poems yet
to be written and hopefully read....

the baby cries out. a geschrei,^ but back to his
dreams of strange houses, funny cribs, and
senses going crazy with new sights and smells,
and instantly back to sleep, my god that's some
perfect baby!

and the old writer, the would-be-poet, knows when
not to belabor the point, and there's work to be done,
good weather requested, ferries to ride, perhaps, even,
brioche french toast for breakfast and of course,
miles to go…
    
                                                                ­                 nml
4:18am
9/12/25
Shelter Island Keep
^
"Geschrei" is a word from Yiddish and German meaning a yell, shout, uproar, or clamor. In English, it is sometimes used to refer to the act of screaming or the uproar itself, and can also be a title for the famous painting by Edvard Munch known as The Scream
the night whispers the black water fall of ashes
that bloom into the sparrows of sorrow...


the sorrow sparrows are back again
sitting in the tangled woods of twisted trees.

Van Gogh heard their voices
bouncing off love's walls.

the sorrow sparrows are leaning into me.
my sad eyes, dream of you brother.

I lean into the soft lit room
searching for love's quiet hours,
with sunlight flickering through willow trees.

"don't cry, darlin," my wife whispers.
My cat child
brings order where there was none.
Let's not talk about the walnut shell of my womb,
empty birthplace of dust.
Let's talk about my cat child, proud with powers, handy with struts.

Now, listen--
I have forgotten all about you.
I've heard that I was in love once, but who knows?
Show me the evidence; I'll yawn elaborately, and my cat child will agree
that such stuff is dull in the extreme.
Dead fish, on the other hand, become more riveting every minute.

You would not have understood my cat child.
At least, that's my foggy instinct about it.
You would have objected to the damage, the **** and the fleas.
The rumor is, cats were royal once,
and I need the reflected glory and the chance to sleep during the day.

Right now, my cat child is away.
She is hungry for mice, songbirds, or someone's leg.
Me, I don't eat anymore, can't recall why I ever did--
I remember nothing, value nothing, aspire to nothing.

But once,
The feel of my mouth closing gently over the curve of your soft lower lip
seemed such an urgent thing,
like warm waves for mermaids,
a place I would do anything to get to.
Yes once,
the sight of your dark hair sent warm honey over my heart,
my belly,
my ***,
and everywhere, my love, from my skin to the stars.

Now, though,
I have forgotten all that.
What were we talking about? I have no idea.
Now there is only the glare of afternoon
and the magnificence of my cat child who has given me nine lives--
none of them worth a ****,
all as dead in the mouth as a finch with a broken neck.
2015
Peter Granger
7:02 PM (2 hours ago)
to marshalgebbie45, Denis, Dave, Peter

By Piddles Granger

In our little town, permanent attire is dressing-gown,
outsiders find it impossible to believe
Most believe we is abnormal, nonetheless preferring informal
Dressen' gowns are our clothing motif

Its their unappreciated beauty, specially for us with big-*****
the deception is made at each weigh-in
concealing a multitude of sins, its a fashionista win-win
creates an illusion even when public tennis playin’.

Its the classic wrap-around garment, conceals unflattering enlargement
a truly remarkable master of disguise
not an opposite-*** attractant, au-contraire a comatose relaxant
its a virtual cold shower for most red-blooded guys

Made of quality chenille, has such a sensuous feel,
with hundreds of Pantonian skins
pastel ripple pink is my favourite, but high-vis is also made of it
its unmistakable as street-ferrying trash bins

Whilst the gown is entirely inflammable, near open fires dont be too casual
one percent natural fibre improves its aeration
If the belt-knot comes adrift, one’s inside package may shift
but on a hot day providing much-needed ventilation

When it comes to arthritis, swollen ankles and phlebitis
provides gown-length that perfectly suits
it will always be low-down, ever so close to the ground
without ever concealing those treasured ugg boots

Unfortunately, dressen' gowns and cosmetics do not equate to chick magnets
the two being completely incompatible
when venturing beyond one’s own premises, socially unacceptable skin blemishes
in some quarters have become ever so fashionable

PG
Piddles is an old mate of mine, he hails from Phillip Island in Victoria.
Piddles is a savant with immeasurable talent and flair. knowledgeable in international affairs, he has a loathing for the CCP and Putin in equal measures. He is an Australian to the core and luxuria1tes in being so!
One day, the world will be a sorrier place without old Piddles.
M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ
deserve
it more than most, more than anyone, indeed, in deed,
your passion drowns me,
overwhelms and even makes me admit
out loudly
over comes

your faceted identities,
delight, charm, provoke,
and evoke
multitudes of moods, desires,
even writings...
but you are too stern,
this thing called love,
is tissue soft, so hard to form,
so easily torn, it requires
time & hard work, many words,
though oft the fewest are supreme,
and I laugh at myself, for the only word
I think that rhymes with supreme
is
dream
which is
just another synonym
for
endless opportunities


and I, we, read each others poems
to each other
quietly,
for that is the only, & the best way.
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