Stolen warmth gone for now, followed by melancholic uneventful sounds. When I walk, I walk away from seeing. Everything I thought I might've been. This skin trying to fly away from me, like a misplaced shadow searching for a body to shrug off its grief. Bending, arcing, aching thumbs that have too much memory to allow them any fun. The old time might have agreed, with the girl lost for at least three weeks. Sugar and a can of milk condensed, heated up over campfire coals in the woods near Libereć.
Twice I'm too scared to talk. After a boxing match with a raging bull. Staleness lingers over these sweating hips, where half a moon quaffs down Verdi's Requiems. I told you I'm hiding in the jungle now. Through these cufflinks I speak through a startled jowl. First that dying tone, the startling sound of a fading D Minor song. The mines of the forest grieve, until the hours born sell the rights to sleep. Taken and away from grief, where wiggling children's fingers are seen. Only to find the child was not a realty. Let your hands make amends to me, whether you're here for the pistachio ice cream or vanilla almond dream. Princess pleas for a pauper's being.
Looks like the child bit off half it's tongue, to ignore all inquiries into where its gone. Minute games and clauses of flesh, I tie her up using her own belt. Chasing The Rockies for a festive blue, then I gorge myself while she enrolled me too. Quiet bandits filled with starlight.
as one stage empties slow shuffle exit another curtain will rise
waiting for that spark an instant in time silent explosion within
stylus on rock face outline of past forms a mountain's sudden call
as eagle marks still moments above a darkened gorge
brooding dawn fights clouds' urgent cries
and man's spirit lifts high and at last flies
- - - - - -
Sometimes poems don't easily flow for a time. Perhaps we are trying to have each one just perfect. This off the cuff poem arose spontaneously and is dedicated to Kamala from poetfreak.com (ending 31/12/16) who has wonderful talent. This is my welcome poem to him if he finds his way here: Take care - you are a brilliant poet - it sits there waiting for that spark - a turn of the head, a cloud formation, a child's sudden laugh on distant wind, the roar of a river... an eagle soaring steady, ominous, yet beautiful - as a sullen dawn over a brooding sea - ah! I feel it stir in you - it is there... for you are a true poet, my friend, so let it fly free...! I found this pic on Flickr to accompany this post - it's worth viewing: https://www.flickr.com/photos/visbeek/4079078904/in/photolist-GGYAEj-zPqzkH-C6vKbQ-tUkRHr-tBTyRn-tBTyre-u5ffKz-sXjLhh-7dsm3C-nNmfSZ-5XmwwH-nJcEhR-GRkyQQ-rAKyje-6hfKbn-9RWR7c-aZugaB-cYE9bm-96nk4X-5TS2fP-tUtcM6-s51CHE-tpkJAo-tvC4gD-uvYmuC-xQijbn-tLgSWL-syvu
I silence the whispers from my mouth As the jaws elongate out of this life It’s not a yawn but a mouthful whisper The stroke of a songbird in seductive tunes A rise of the pitched crescendo pinches Stroking my ribs and the depths of my soul He know me best and I put my case to rest
The king crowned with sorrow haunts me Then he tickles me to the paradisiacal gardens His groove holds me in the gorges of my dreams His breath mists my breath as the weather drowns His claws an embrace that scratches and taunts Still I dare to doubt his flame as it scorches He knows me best as we dive in the oceanic beds