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2.8k · Nov 2011
thomas gabriel Nov 2011
I provoke the wind
in a dialect shared with him
and him alone.
He whispers assent,

as assuaging liquid draughts
glance my submissive frame.
A desolate wanderer,
incising the burdensome night.

Accompanied by none corporeal,
I prowl satin fields,
illuminated by Luna
and Saturn, her amber consort.

©*Thomas Gabriel
2.4k · Dec 2011
thomas gabriel Dec 2011
A capricious young mind
alive with reveries of vistas and granite hues,
enthralling nocturnes
and his touch in the night air.

Disparate and removed
you contemplated the stars,
a life lived with arms outstretched
beckoning the notional.

Beneath the ceaseless sky
you yearned for his warmth,
to feel your ashen flesh adhere to his every fissure
raising your arms to his celestial vantage
you beckoned, once more.

From the dimming light,
above the distant horizon he rose -
like the smoke of an ardent fire that resided within,
ascending through your being,
coming to rest upon your weary head,
he suffused each lissom filament with a fragrance,

©*Thomas Gabriel
1.6k · Jan 2012
Son of Sirius.
thomas gabriel Jan 2012
A brightness bathed the night:
Spectral corollas flecked the slick,
Damp sea – shoals of languid light
Mourned in planetary shadow play.

Bloodless bronze effigy,
Son of Sirius, hastened earthward
From the jaw of an untamed brute:
Swathed in an amorphous, turbid

Cloth, he fell – stark as crimson
Amid the dull, wan air. A death
Most uncouth: lain now on a pillow
Of galling shell and abrasive flesh.

A rare trinket plucked for my memory.

©*Thomas Gabriel
I found a wonderfully rare (dead) owl whilst on a walk this week and i took one of his feathers so i could remember his beauty. This is his.
1.4k · Feb 2012
February 16
thomas gabriel Feb 2012
Pinnated clouds
spread like wisteria
along the horizons
waning axis. Farmland
is smothered
in arbitrary
purple leaflets.

humic red fabric
of a fallow field
on my eye under the
astral confetti.

A sombre greyness
reclined and presided
over all: joyous
summer rain-cloud
but for the early years
icy resolve.
1.4k · Dec 2011
Icarus revisited.
thomas gabriel Dec 2011
We found a new world,

Ordained with holy numbers
and d-a-s-h-e-s-
by modern priests in


Pious, singularly
unromantic men.

Reaching for this sphere
it is into an unnamed sea
amid unmounted peaks
                            I shall fall,

a willfully disobedient
boy who drowned
with a hunger
that surpassed
                all worldly sustenance.

Though perhaps it’s for the best
I’ll never walk its corrugated

G a s e o u s
for an epoch of chastity
would be corrupt
by my abrasive soles, my cutting
words, my fallible conscience
and mortal skin.

600 light-years?
I’ll save us both the effort.

©*Thomas Gabriel
Simply, i was inspired by the planet "Kepler-22b".
Google it, you'll see...
1.2k · Dec 2011
November 19.
thomas gabriel Dec 2011
My window has no seat, why would it? I wish it did.
There is just a glossy magnolia ledge, barely wide enough to
cater a slender bottom. Upon the ledge books and candles
rest, illuminating the murk outside. Directly opposite orchard
trees recede as I welcome autumn with a zealous smirk.
For now faintly visible between their visceral arms are the
all-seeing hillocks that in winter will dominate my view.

An impartial observer once stated they were mere freckles
on the landscapes recumbent spine, but to me their sight alone
is vertiginous. On balmy April days I would surmount them,
a personal expedition, up there where I’m the valleys curator, wearing
pristine white gloves I meticulously unravel the terrain: an ancient
manuscript, the vellum inked with meandering streams, occasional farms,
cursive hamlets and little else - a land of sobriety and dearth.

In November though there is a permanent mist and its source
inexplicable. Does it simply effervesce from the precipitous tors about?
Is it the villager’s enshrined collective sigh? No it is something
more. Sitting atop the villages head it’s the beloved satin bonnet you
wore religiously as a child. Wholly impractical for this season
its gossamer fabric offers little solace or insulation to those below
as its pleated extremities elope with the moss-brown hinterland.

Fervently stoking their hearths the villagers broaden the
ethereal cloth with a smoke not acrid but satisfying and nourishing:
with a terrifically edible, hardwood flavour. From my hillock
vantage, the sanguine stone of the manorial chimneys is all that
penetrates the film; casually they release torrents of smoke like
ivory doves that weft patterns instinctively into the sky’s pallid damask.

©*Thomas Gabriel
1.0k · Feb 2012
The Gallows.
thomas gabriel Feb 2012
Ring-doves with stoles
as black as ice,
constrained by priestly cloth,
flew oblivious to our delights,
blotting the evening sun.

As rooks adorned
The Gallows frame,
with limbs demure and frail,
bleak spectres stalked the shadows
nigh, their faces gaunt and pale.

You sought a comfort
truly base,
on rocks far to the west,
thatched dwellings stirring distantly,
the town it would not rest.

For fear of the malicious one
that steals both young and aged:
The Gallows wait,
their slender necks,
like brittle coppice gates.
My first and only foray into rhyme, also the only poem i've ever written inspired by a piece of art - Bruegel's Magpie on the Gallows
977 · Jan 2012
January 21.
thomas gabriel Jan 2012
A coercive throat siphons the sky: delineating.
Men of Normandy, your dulcet words still flow
On aching gusts around these hillock ramparts.
Autumns tapestry fell with Harold, listless it
Furnishes the margin of an otherwise bleak-boughed
Wood. An obstinate robin: the failing furnaces closing
Ember, pursues the regressive winter light among the
Limbs of a grand oak, laden with iron cloud, low
And heavy. The thicket is sparse yet astir, two narrow
Eyes, eight square, inky pupils squat below the
Russet brow of a thrice augmented cottage: histories
White-washed witness, bearing pale stone arms and a
Jaunty red-bricked cap.

©*Thomas Gabriel
899 · Dec 2011
December 3.
thomas gabriel Dec 2011
Brother moons chalky,
saturnine crescent
could barely penetrate
the giant’s
match-stick forest:
its burnished copper foliage
would remain latent,
for now.

This night antagonized
                          our souls,
darker when I stared into its
vacuous depths
than when glanced
from my minds periphery.
it exploited the valleys repose.
Morning’s volition was heralded
with a transient

December’s waking drafts
spoke ardently
of a daughter lost:
for centuries
a solitary bloom,
sustained by unseen conduits,
upon the surface
of a fallow field.

Now it lay,
                                       defiled by my hand.

Her blood-stained spray seeped
into the earths russet tunic.
Dawn’s sentries:
two soot black crows,
stalked a field’s beaded
hawthorn seam as a
                                                church knells cadence
the airs discourse from its holy precipice;
death, death, death
on my ear.

©*Thomas Gabriel
884 · Mar 2012
March 3.
thomas gabriel Mar 2012
A March dusk blotted stale
bodies; jet-black water
ran thick with puerile inks
and imparted abandon.

Head shrouded in
cobalt mist, night idled
by a black pane that
rang dull and flat.

Backtracking rooks caught
the vacant eye: threading
a monarchical purple cloak
to hoard the transient days.
Goodness, i need to be more creative with these titles!
824 · Mar 2012
Oliver James.
thomas gabriel Mar 2012
Reticent, morning hides
behind boles of alder, the air
escaping his lungs

Calcifies in my chest.
A caustic mist mists
Over the rivers pane. Thick

White trails into fine liquid
Black, interring the
slight, torn body. Orange sky-swell

Washes incandescent green:
Dark sienna burns
A path to the waters scorched

White stone. The wood
Holds no sympathy: alacritous
calls knife the sorrowful heart.
Oliver James washed in the rain, no longer.
815 · Feb 2012
February 11
thomas gabriel Feb 2012
A lone plough tills a
moonless sky.

Votive seeds sewn once more
with ash-white dust
on February’s caustic,
elongated breaths.

Crows carry a portentous look.

Late August: we tied
six roses to the wall
with an expectant love

but faded blood
heralds nothing new.

©*Thomas Gabriel
801 · Dec 2011
thomas gabriel Dec 2011
It stopped.
Your mahogany façade now encases
more than the minute intricacies of time,
preserving something besides stale,
wooden air. Abiding now is an essence,
a moment,
an instant that will never
ever, reoccur.
What ghostly hand grasped your swinging
metal heart? Oh towering vision.
The cogs that are inside us continue
but you are dead. For now.
Frozen at 11:09 last Tuesday.

©*Thomas Gabriel
754 · Dec 2011
thomas gabriel Dec 2011
A lofty elevation,
A plumose cowl,
An irrefutable will.
Discretion: his calling card,
A birch-white arrow through
Viscous mauve shadows.
The strigine thief
Who appropriates your form
From the ground upward.
Predacious eyes perceive flesh and bone,
Discarded like chaff
Upon autumns threshing floor.
His talons disclosed,
Your legs shrouded
By his imperious wing.
Vaporous, you stand,
Your torso drawn ambiguous,
Upon the horizons ochre fabric.
Silken hair falls
Obliquely around your shoulders
Coalescing with the gathering mist.
Like the astringent hues in your puerile eyes,
I will fade from this night.
The evidence etched, evermore
Inside two darkling vessels.

I witnessed it all.

©*Thomas Gabriel
708 · Dec 2011
thomas gabriel Dec 2011
The land was veiled
and silence exultant -
                p e r m e a t e d only by
resonating from deep within the frozen forest
where life had retreated,
aghast by the glacial wind.

Cowering together,
               dwellings shivered
                             ephemeral oak structures
                             bowed beneath
the freshly shorn lamb’s wool that enveloped all,
the shearer continued.

You left this night,
                   without a whisper
of regret
across the interminable,

     n     u      a     i     g      furrows
u     d      l      t    n

that ridicule your lifeless,
even features - pitiless,
your sodden soles penetrated the ****** snow.

Impervious to such inclemency
                       I traipse deep into the thicket,
reminded of how earlier
I collected from this q u i v e r i n g coppice,
                no more, no less
than my meagre allowance dictates.

Your stride is familiar,
for it was once mine
with metronomic ease I trace you,


traversing a promontory, I see you,
stood on a limestone plinth
        shimmering pasture below.

You turn; we face,
        unwavering symmetry|
as stained crystals fall red with affliction
caressing the firmament I lace your name with my finger
no more.

©*Thomas Gabriel
698 · Jul 2012
July 22.
thomas gabriel Jul 2012
It is July and it is Sunday.
A dark, restless Sunday.
Morning hangs like incense: suspended on the kestrel's wooden wings.

Lucidity is but an inky tumult blotting the night's waning stars:
disparate, faceless grey among a growing blackness.
The smoke of a short-lived fire.

The wind hastens. The arms of a birch fold and the church's vane rotates.
The theatre! The anticipation.
The muteness of the rain on a distant field.

Approaching the red-brick house that burns with darkening rooms:
streaks of silver gilding the margin of it's cloaked black eyes.
A hammer falls on this great, wide anvil:

scales of iron scatter and resonate in the upper atmosphere.
I cannot bear to look.
Not far to the left, at the terminal of a tunnel of some fluted grey fabric,

white plumes rise and expand and shadow at the edges.
I walk toward them, over the ghost of an old rain, to a familiar garden:
heather and clover proliferate in it's borders - they are to be hoed constantly.

Hedges of yew and box are to be stripped of the green coats
spring afforded them, tailored to my will and at my expense.
I fight life and nature equally. Forming a transient perfection here.

Perfection soon to be enveloped by the lavender and the stocks,
then themselves by the bind-**** that has taken to their blooms and stems,
to my very roots. All is sustained by this rain, this depressive dampness.
691 · Dec 2011
thomas gabriel Dec 2011
You have the hands of a pianist,
she said.

I disagreed.

For mine are fingers
that articulate not fluid
or comatose melodies,
but speak instead
         with intermittent,

desultory                     sighssss,

wrought upon leaden keys
in the dead of night.

Words hook like a noose around my soul,
hungering to take it
somewhere forsaken,

somewhere unknown.

For every poem I write
           and ends
in a different place.

This one for instance,
was supposed to be about

658 · Nov 2011
Young Sparrow
thomas gabriel Nov 2011
We rest together
our pale, skeletal frames as fragile as the young sparrow
you found in the ancient wood as a child.

His hollow form, consigned to the earth where he lay
by the hunter or the passing breeze?
Such is life you thought, brutal, beautiful,

Soon he’ll be indistinguishable from his pine needle bedding
oh to hold in your diligent hands,
something so faint and dear!

©*Thomas Gabriel
608 · Feb 2012
thomas gabriel Feb 2012
Afternoon wanes,
only morning exists in this sun's
perverse mind, blackening.

Disdains bedfellow,
it’s in darkness I wake -
Only afternoons exist.
585 · Feb 2012
February 21.
thomas gabriel Feb 2012
The sky was set,
stern and volcanic.

My blood ran like meltwater.

Winter flew desultory
around the roof of a
nameless wood -
the birds refused to fall.
486 · Mar 2012
Late March.
thomas gabriel Mar 2012
A clock’s hands pain then cease.
Dawn stands timeless on a horizon
Of soot black trees that drink in the

Last darkness, greens and whites
Prevail. Mute chalk hills entice a
Stirring mind that hungers to leave

These walls: walk with the fog as
It hangs low over a barley field,
Retreating tide, black among grey
                                            then noise.

— The End —