I had forgotten this silence existed.
One that lets me hear so much
Over distances my senses cannot gauge...
The bark of the dog doing its job
The clanging of trailers and gates...somewhere.
Birdsong, of course, is a constant
But I leave them to it, no need to disturb.
Not a socket in the house is on, by the way
Spring's sudden Sun generates comfort enough.
No Telly, no phone, no radio required,
Instinct tells me to hear the quiet
To receive not broadcast.
A bright orange book lies beside me:
It confessed all to me this morning.
I'll remember this silence always.
That mask of beauty
Unchipped flawless marble
Sculpted by aged chemistry
Intimidates but seduces me
Chokes thoughts, obstructs words
A simple mind disconcerted by
That mask of beauty.
That vintage ache circulates
Intoxicates and sobers alternately
Spreads shame then clarity
Hindsight as a cruel curator of the mind.
Ink dried quick
Art's potential energy
Music = MC²
Art can bide its time
Protected by the brave
To explode off the page
Into halls, into minds
As a weapon of mass attention
A cackle of Crows in her craw
On his frame hung the rotting fruits of his experiences
A living carcass bejewelled by hate and spite
Candied fruit soured by the fermentation of bitterness and regret.
Silken shroud of running water
Softens rock to rounded pebbles
Much as time can soothe a memory
Inverted scene of coast and air
Granite cliff clouds and sky of sea
You and I inbetween watching
The topsy turvy, roly poly play
Of two who cast their cares away
Molten days pour from from Shore to Sea
Combining to generate memory's energy
In the boiling hiss of an evaporating week.
Doubt sows a seed
In my greenhouse skull
Each passing day is an investment
A sacrifice of the present for the future.
As for the past, frivolous times forgotten,
Consigned to the bin of social media
Doomed to be infertile digital compost
By the time you are ready to bloom.
Pure love runs
Jumps and lands
The perfect dive
Clean and efficient
A verbal spaghetti junction
Faceless and loud as a blast
A conference call going nowhere fast
Dead leaves drowning
Leaping like Lemmings
From Tree to Sea
Skeletal arms, leafless
Surrendered to the season
Patient is the life of a tree
Tolerant of unceasing change
You wanted to spare the blushes of the little boy
Who had ordered the book with the explicit cover
So you called him into the privacy of the corridor:
"Dyra fo yn dy ***"* you suggested gently
Handing over a book warm to the touch,
Wrapped in sellophane (as if to try to contain its power).
I've never forgotten that one-act play, nor its elements:
The subject compressed within its covers,
Your understanding and thoughtfulness,
The bewilderment of my ten year old self,
The discernment of Sbondonics**
But mostly the Hellfire unleashed by Little Boy fifty years prior.
*Put it in your bag
**A Welsh literary children's magazine
What wonders have my wasteful eyes overlooked
Over thirty years of fleeting footfall
A hungry desire for fitness and weightloss
Now yields to age and acceptance.
This blue dot, home to **** Contrarius
Custodians and abusers of Earth
Who named everything seven thousand times
And created seven thousand differing deaths.
As the Sun abandons the living
Dusk drowns the entombed dead
Inviting the night to resurrect.
Reality rushes to a single point
A concentrated truth ovewhelms
Am I free or imprisoned in the now?
Options become the stars and clouds
But vanish in a flash of lucid thought.
Shifting scenes of quasi reality
Fears manifest in fluid thoughts
Subconscious thoughts projected
The sleeping mind a poor screen:
Dreams do not bear close scrutiny
When reviewed in morning's lucidity.
Regrets set in canyons
The mind's gravity wells
Drawing in introspection
The day lost at sea
Your careworn heart broke
When death came to claim
The life it had coveted so long
The life you shielded for so long
An end to a doomed purpose
Anti climactic? A death and a half?
The shackles a tightened privilege:
Release did not bring you peace.
House and soul were empty that night
No shallow breath for company
The thermostat's click a reminder
Of the warmth he enjoyed.
My wonderment is on hiatus
I have no time for the timeless
The age of starlight is a luxury
Unaffordable for the foreseeable
Children alter everything
But nothing really changes
I still occasionally glance upwards:
Orientation courtesy of constellations
Rooted by a wild silence
A stillness too serene
"Show me!" my silence screams
Lumens of light pour into my eyes
Silence crashes about my ears
What is it about me that it so fears?
Hyper-aware as I stare and stare
The weighed down minutes pass:
How does one measure impatience?
Suddenly, a sound of rhythm
Alas, nothing natural or interesting
Only human toil, heard but not seen
As I leave, the wind and trees conspire
Talking a cryptic breathless language
That seems to whisper "He is leaving"
On the breath of twilight's yawn
Rose the star of dawn
Tireless in its cycle.
Eager feet too near the Oak
Set off a firework of Starlings
The Wintered tree stands lifeless again
A used matchstick burning with indignity
Stripped of its fleeting irridescence.
Passing, always passing:
People I wish I'd met,
Met long before their passing.
I take a crash course in their existence,
Personal history, wishes and outcomes
Scribbled for a rudimentary assessment.
They are but scrappy souvenirs,
Notes that barely scratch the surface
Of lives that cannot be summarised.
Passing, always passing:
People I wish I'd met,
Met long before their passing.
The Narcissist's roof caves-in as delusions collapse into reality.
When has this man-child ever had to face reality before?
I love the smell of inevitability in the morning.
Ego hidden in plain sight
I hide it
Hide it with all my might
I have placed my childhood bibles (that aren't Bibles) on your bookshelf; hidden them in plain sight. A cheap subliminal trick I know, but one meant as an investment in time and knowledge: to peck away at your curiosity like the Woodpeckers I hope you'll read about in that Illustrated Encyclopedia of Birds, which to you, right now, is just a jumbo colouring book too heavy for your restless hands.
Irrelevant years of existence
Vast drowned numbers
Swimming with the fishes
Your blue-hypnotic drowns my eyes
I dive into your cold embrace.
As I type
My body is investigating
A tiny fraction of a tiny virus
That has conquered a world.
His mind's pained pleas echo
The brain's chosen words fragment
Inside his closed mouth
The chill wind thrusts
A walk into the stars
Zero G sets wild thoughts free
- all is possible on that voyage -
But the landing is hard
As the door bangs shut.
The path welcomes loners
A tunnel through landscape
Through busy thoughts
Into seclusion and peace
Where fears flee the nest
To do alone what they do best.
You weren't quite with it this morning
You bled Red-shifted light,
Soaked the clouds and stained the hills,
Startled a three year old
Not yet wise to your nature
"The birds haven't painted him yet,
He'll be Yellow again after Breakfast":
The reassurance of a father
Who does know your nature.
Of course, you got your act together
And, by eight o'clock,
You were basking in your own Yellow brilliance,
Like the celestial Emperor you are.
I thought He whispered in my ear once
Ghostly sounds shaped like words
Too brittle to hear, too gentle to fear
Could His words be so fragile?
I never heard them again.
The Trumpets wailed
A wall shaken turns to dust
Nothing from nothing
The Trumpets blew
An imagined wall fell.
Shorting neurones fusing
Pleasant confusion reigns
Where lucidity once laced mercurial wisdom
A sense of self shuffled
The mind playing dice
The subjugated now just a vessel
For these disordered depositories
Disorientation to time and place
Leaves autonomy forever questioned:
What insight and understanding?
The question for a future of flux.
Just a little illness,
Something that gets me off my feet,
A friendly virus partial to good deeds
To leave me bed-bound for a day or three.
A minor car crash,
No one but me,
A harmlessish accident arranged by the Gods
To leave me bed-bound for a week or three.
A break is as good as a change they say,
So maybe a real hospital pass in 5 a side
- a wrist-breaker on crash landing -
So no more typing for four to six weeks.
Chest hair is really useful for creating a lather quickly.
The home office.
Where my heart is?
A place of comfort,
Respite from workaday workdays,
Invaded by documents and devices,
By electro-voices and avoidable crises.
Oh! The mundanity,
Oh! The profanity,
Oh! The insanity.
A final visit, a necessary trip
Outrunning the lockdown
To fulfil the blackberry pinky promise.
For time with their grandkids.
I am not scared
And I do not know why.
A tragedy miles of time away
But pain is a stubborn stain
Counselling never washes it out
New love never puts it out of its misery
It is a stubborn ****,
Rooted in composted memories,
Finds nourishment in unwelcome recollections;
The slightest trigger allows it to blossom.
At the death of a summer's day
Your silhouetted ridge
Draws a rested figure of exhaustion
A giantess asleep
(a backdrop and a foreground)
A blanket of respite colours.
Cartwheeling at the order of the winds,
Power to the people with the tumbling of your limbs.
A last throw of the dice by your makers,
A Quixotic endeavour to undo the damage;
Damage wreaked by the furies of their forebearers.
About all too real climate change
His mind's pleas echo
In his closed mouth