#mvblake
Time, said the bird,
As it flew through the bay,
Catching the wind
On that fine summer’s day.
Alone, it flew by,
As I watched from the sill;
Its feathers so white
As it flew past the hill.
Stop, I had wailed,
As his storm hit my shore;
But the damage was done
As I lay on the floor.
Sky, you and I,
We’ve been here before;
Sharing this tale,
Perhaps more and more.
Clear was the glass,
As I stared through the pane,
Wondering just then
If the sky was to rain.
Done, said the sky,
With a wink of its eye;
Time to get up,
here’s no need to cry.
Peace, he did cry
As he stepped on the boat;
I watched with a smile
As he settled afloat.
Dark, warned the sky,
As the boat set its sail;
The warnings were there
To live through this tale.
Listen, dark sailor,
The sky is no friend;
The boat tried to help
His friend in the end.
Hell, she will send us,
If you carry this through.
But the man would not listen
To the boat who held true.
Wild, called the storm,
As it blew through the hall,
Tearing and shaking
The paint on the wall.
Hope, I did feel,
As the sky fought my cause;
Smashing and banging
The air without pause.
Break, cried the storm,
As it picked up the boat.
The man and his friend
On the water were smote.
Death was his lot
As he sailed on the sea;
I waited ashore
For my life to be free.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 7:28 PM UTC
I’m moving through rooms,
Restless and roving
Searching for something
That I know I won’t find.
Not under the sofa,
Or under the rug.
Not in the vacuum,
Or tucked in the folds
Of my wife’s throw
In subdued forest green.
It remains unseen.
It’s not in her vanity
Or the basket wear our clothes
Would wind together like lovers;
Sweat-soaked and bitter-sweet.
It’s not in the cupboard with the dog’s treats
Maybe it fell from a kitchen drawer
To lie with the spiders
Hidden in the floor.
It’s not in our great wide bed
Where our sheets lay flat and wrinkle-free,
Future dust-sheets all.
Let’s face it, it’s not in the hall.
It’s not in the garden we planted
Or the shed we built.
It’s definitely not in the garage
Where she never went,
Not even for a minute,
Which I thought heaven-sent.
It’s not on the porch
Or the patio bench,
Where we spent many an evening
Trying to learn French.
It’s not in the car,
That’s my one you see.
Hers is not there...
The thing that I’ve lost
I won’t find today,
Tomorrow,
Next week or in June.
She may as well be on the moon.
Jul 6, 2022
Jul 6, 2022 at 2:29 PM UTC
A badge without condition bought cheap, from a thrift store
Lies with brass medals and plastic ribbon, from uncaring hands.
A paid add on the paper floor, claps on the back from glad-hands,
Claps for marrying poor, she’s worth it, all her rotten core.
You walk with conceit, when the army stamped it’s boot,
A doctor’s note, before the sarge could break your seat.
Readies from your parent’s purse, a hand-out on the brew.
You queue for ****** on the roads in a pimped-out hearse.
Slurred words drawl from the dark, blood spit on the street,
Fistfights punctuate grammar like an exclamation mark.
You clone another you, spat from the womb cold;
A mother’s love wrapped in smoke of cozened blue.
There is no end to your ambition.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 7:10 PM UTC
Sunlit rays slant through
Like traces in the dark,
Incandescent beams
Flinging dust motes and dreams
Into sharp relief.
Eyelids crawl open
To a dim shelter
Of duvae red, faded.
A peek over the edge
Sets the stomach a'quiver,
An urge to leap fought off
By fatigue; you stay in camp
And slowly stretch your muscles.
An electronic foghorn
Signals your doom.
An avalanche of cotton,
And your back protests
At the sudden weight.
The tether snaps
And you fall
Into the dark of the day.
Feb 27, 2015
Feb 27, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC