Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.

Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.

In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.

Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.

strong blusters of thronging wind
blew through the town's streets last night
whirling with a forceful might
as heard in their skirl

I was greeted by
unearthly
midnight
or stellar light

I'm hypnotized by
the evening clouds

I espy
the busy
passers-by
or the silly
vagabonds

The round
earth doesn't pause
Proxima Centauri
doesn't pause
Ursa Major
doesn't pause

Colours change
The game
continues

I close my
eyes
This is how I can perceive
the sound
of silence
This is how I meet myself
I'm neither
a nihilist
nor
a hedonist
I'm simply
a monotheist

A gust
of wind blusters
My gossamer
scarf flutters

I open my inquisitive
eyes
I discover the mysterious
scene

Wrinkling lids
Shut tonight
Dying is missed
Champion blithe
Cruel plotters
Plot to maketh
They soar with wings
Evil takings

It was so hot yesterday
My armhair sweat,
My eyes were looking
Through a plastic bag,
My teeth were saturated.

I found the wind
Beneath the Bluewater Bridges
At the headwaters of the St. Clair.
Here I can relax my skin,
Watch the gulls maneuver,
Like your kite, Aine,
Against and with the blusters,
Gaining dive speed to vault the trestles.

The sun is burning my bones,
My blood rushes at four knots
With Huron's mouth.
I straddle the Shadow
To follow the birds,
Thinking of winter
I release a high-pitched laughing scream
That's carried back to the bridges
With my flapping shirt tails
Providing drag.

The late-day light slants in through
the large, framed window and onto the couch where I sit again.
I watch my Abby lean against the back and
squeal with joy as she points towards the tall trees
dropping pine cones and needles and filling the air with yellow dust.


"Dance! Dance!" she chimes while the trees continue to sway.
A sober smile spreads itself across my face
because the contrast lays heavy in my heart.

The air is thick and stuffy even though the wind outside blusters with
the warmth of a young Indian summer.

My grandmother sits pale and broken in that chair.
there was a time I sat there with her
delving deep into tales that took place so far away.
Her soft, careful voice lulling me
like the trees were lulled in that wind-

And there were times that I lay outside with my sister
our hair ratted with autumn leaves and pine needles
on a carpet of the greenest grass.

We would lay there, trees swaying above us,
shrieking and giggling nervously when they would bend.
Clutching hands we would laugh nervously and say
it was just a game.

And Grandma would call us in
to soup and sandwiches
made with such care
and over chocolate milk
we tell her of how the wind had snapped branches off the apple tree
and we had found a perfect bird nest with feathers still caught in the twigs

As she listened her eyes would widen with interest and,
at just the right moment, her hand would flutter to her heart
and she would gasp with such sincere surprise
that my eyes would meet with my sister's and we
would choke back a chuckle with a smile.

And there were times when I would snuggle deep
into the cleanest smelling bed linens and
Grandma would pull the quilt up over me to my chin.
"Goodnight my Angel," she said.
But in her eyes I saw the real angel
as she bent to kiss me softly on my cheek.

The smell of her face cream always lingered on my cheek from that kiss.

But now she sits
tired and broken
in that chair we used to share
and watches my little angel
young and vibrant
giggle at the same swaying trees
in a different age.

They become names
Like the rims of baked-bean tins
That have to be handled with care

They are a bunch of flowers
Tied to a lamppost
Or a bench with words carved in

They are a Wikipedia page
Or a library shelf
Or a nothing
A nobody

They swell into memories
Wilted and swimming like wax
They seem to be stood there
When the sunlight blusters
Over dust
Because dust is just dead cells
That we all inhale
Exhale
Like we’ll choke them back into existence

They reside in half-empty
Boxes of tissues
Cigarette packets
The bubbles in lemonade

They become a mantelpiece of photographs
And sympathy cards
Broken toys
Empty T-shirts that you’ll try to turn into puppets
Sat in their wardrobe

They fall into certain songs
Certain car journeys
Occasionally they borrow your tongue
To continue voicing certain phrases
Certain people
Certain places
Certain rooms
Certain tastes
Certain seasons
Certain sunsets

Or maybe they just toss and turn
Beneath the church built of handkerchiefs
Like commuters coffined into underground trains
Wondering whether they can still believe
In tunnels
And golden lights.

I guess I've lost my voice to
The wind.
Though easterly blusters
Kept my mama
In shambles
With tumble weeds,
The northern winds will
Carry my voice
To the place where
Dawn
Breaks on ice caps and
Buries fears beneath
The ages of sameness.

There is an inch of sleight in this house – this cold chair,
a burst of cologne clogging a 20 minute stride. The stringent
air tonight blusters deeper than gashing sheens.

The little dryad of dew outside and the cadenza of frogs
after lambaste of rain. Whenever you sing, your voice
communes an immense pain, something unconscious of its
gravity, something that levitates back to momentary ululations

swelling in the grime of times and heady chances. A long stretch
of a day submerged in silence resembling a howl underwater.

There will be many sorrows and they will take form of doves,
assume the skin of the populace. They will come in a volume of
names pressing the linoleumed musk the way the body turns
maneuvering over the saltine, the mattress, juxtaposed to a lover,

a brusque aroma of coffee brushing away the calm demeanor
of the morning, dragging along the weight of its lassitude
towards the sprays of fern opening a dense ornate of forget,

you, in all places that pulse without recall – an obtuse
fish feeling its life in a surge of blue, overtime, finally knowing
    what it means *to sing and drone only words.

I told you, you would miss me
The minute I was gone
Tough to swallow, hard to see
The extent of Joe's real con.

First he promised, some believed
His sole aim a power grab,
Many listened quite relieved
For his special brand of drab.

Can't you see the mess he's made
All he touches turns to dust,
Yet it's us his failures paid
As our country turns to rust.

Still he blusters unperturbed,
One bad choice after another,
And if by now you're not disturbed,
You can join him in the gutter.
.
But despite all this foul gloom
Months of nothing every day,
Wait for me to see us bloom
I'm the man for which to pray.

Three more years you may well wait
With sad Joe calling the shots,
But this country's very fate
To make good before it rots.

tick, tock
i forgot my wristwatch
i'm losing track of time
tick tock
and you're just there,
right in front of me
twirling carbonara noodles with your fork
the sauce messily covering your lips
tick tock
it has been a long time since
you expressed your stories, your dreams
your philosophies, your blusters
tick, tock
i answer you with smiles
with glances that appreciate
the tiniest details about you
tick, tock
your worn out black cardigan
your varicolored necklace
your white tank top
your chaotic food choices
tick, tock
not again
just stop
quit staring
tick, tock
**** it, i can't finish my meal
tick, tock
you smiled at me
tick, tock
you blushed
tick, tock
you laughed at me
tick, tock
again,
i'm falling
in love
with you
tick, tock
deeper
tick, tock
moments
they hit me
like a train
tick, tock
just tell me
when will i see you again
tick, tock
i don't want this to end
tick, tock
take me with you
tick, tock
ugh **** it
tick, tock
you ask me what's wrong
tick, tock
i shake my head
as response
tick, tock
time is running out
tick, tock
i push my plate away
dropped my spoon and fork
they clattered
tick, tock
i stand up
i lean for a kiss
tick, tock

skirling wind blusters
lash the countryside this very day
callously they splay

gelid wind blusters
drove a freezing current's trail
through the snow clad dales

I see the tempest approaching.

It's coming towards me, black clouds with
      tendrils snaking
        thunder snarling
        Eager
        Hungry
    Coming for me

I welcome it.  Bring forth the pain, if you dare

I care not

I grow tired of being a leaf in the wind
with my destiny blowing me
any which way
every day

I fight to remain in control

No more.
No more.

I will plant my feet firm in the soil
as the tempest, she's boiled, she's wild
she's fitful and riled
she wants to defile me

I will stand, lean into the wind as it tears at me
tears my clothes, tears at my skin
rocks and twigs and dirt attack
I lean into it, I savor it

I open my arms, welcoming

The rain comes down in dagger sheets.
It pelts at my face, but I will not shield my eyes
I will curse and I'll scream at the skies
a guttural roar
a primitive howl
I'm yelling for more

I'm mocking it now

my voice rings clear above the sound
of lightning and thunder
striking at the ground at my feet

A pain so sweet

The tempest, it throws everything
holds back nothing
as it blusters and wails
continues to falter and fail

down to a rumble
tumble
down to a pitiful bumble

I still stand
hands are fists
I'm covered in mud, soaked to the bone

filled with pride and warmth and glow

I'm Reckless
I'm Brazen
I'm Arrogant

I'm...Triumphant

I survived this storm.  I will survive the next.
I will survive you.
Will you survive me?

life is strange i'm dying(youare)and the world is
out my window are little boats
dots
boats
dots

toandfro dots
boat
dots

little and to and fro
dots
go whizzing very slowly
outside my window

i can
a glass perspiring
at my hip
does
the wind
cooly blusters
feel

and a flower
very like is
a girl cut dribble

which grasps the air climbing
into the heat of july

a star

The sun inside me is dying -
Fires running dry -
Cosmic flame of divinest spark
In my spirit's sky -
Slowly losing lustre
Sullied by the world -
And my foolish blusters -
To a devil I have shilled

Listen for the syntax of time,
invisible hands winding
the striking clock, awakening
the sleeper as each hour
reveals its cove of secrets.

Daytime rolls in like
an avalanche, illuminating
the by-roads of consciousness.

Listen for the scent of present,
the sound of non-occurrence,
the sixty small silences of
each minute.

Time blusters through the hours
like the wind through naked branches,
yet the present may happen at any
moment, the chilling loneliness
of your absent self replaced by
a sense of now and the sweet
epiphany of peace.

Inside I feel a savage storm
it gales and then pales
then blusters through m,y sopul
My mind is filled with chaos
as the fierce blasts of thought
erupt my waking hours
My dreams run rough and wild
as the tempest brews within
I have no control over the twister
My whirlwind is private
I've learned to tame the storm
learned to manage the rush
My wildness builds auspiciously
I've trained my storms into silence
until I'm alone and pensive
then it lets loose with fervor

the adams apple
bobs
like the water
is sloshing
the sides
and the heads
are slapping
against the
fine surface
that is festival

the red tinge
spreads as smooth
as butter
against the paleness
of your lips
and you smile
that icy
wax drawn
carriage
until your teeth
shine
as pale
as a fireflies
wing.

Carry on
let the hands
unfold
and twist
and turn
dance in the
glade
that holds you tight
and whisks you
like fine
yolk

the fairies
prattle
is unintelligable
but still
as sweet
as the
most brilliant
cake
their burbles
and blooms
and blusters
and blushes
are finite
and magnificent
fodder for your
cannons

for your heart beats

the poem escapes you
and your lips close
and a beat passes
in which the world
halts its turn
and in turn
hauls your
pretty little behind
out of the mess
you caused

don't say
we didn't
hold you
because
our fingerprints
are all
over
your
blushing
stagnant
muscles

twitch,
and the
fairies sing.

Outside it rages
blusters and blows
away with the cobwebs
enough of those
the air so fresh
flows down my throat
a cleansing purity
had ever I hoped

hair pulled and clothes tugged
this way and that
A dance with nature
though it feels like combat
unforgiving and powerful
the wind at sea
a wake-up call, a reminder
of how thankful I must be

The witness sits waiting
as he walks in, briefcase in hand,
the table lined with lawyers.
He sits, puts down a tablet and pen,
asks for the witness to be sworn in,
and begins.
The pecking order is established.
The questioner is boss
and all embark on the train of
his thought.
'Would you recount for us
the circumstances leading up to
the incident.'
She begins one more time
to recount thoughts and impressions,
superimposed on
dimly recollected facts
whose keen edges
have long dissolved.
Her preparation is as apparent
as a painted door
over the threshold of
the truth.
'You have taken an oath',
he reminds her,
but the lock on the door
clicks shut.
Carefully, then, he makes a small incision
in the web
of aggregated incompatibilities,
and the abscess behind
exudes a purulent glow
through cracks only apparent
to him.
Her lawyer blusters and roars,
attempting to blow out the flickering flame.
But the cover is cleft,
and enough of the truth can be seen
to tip the scale.

Skiff and Skaff the bleak  stitch has a sum of the all grey that surrounds

Under undulations and foibles from the skies lands the ground

Inside scatters of polished brandished leather the undertones panders  escape & the land


Yuletide, resonance of spring, flowers blusters and storms, wicken,  lightening and rains that sing

All of this can be found, strength of the tales tall, trunks affirming, braches exfoliate, solid girth from the earth's own

Enduring

Together with nature, all and I, if even a grey sky
Find the bark of all creations blunt - accessional not frail
Nor shy, nor the less...  of the spirit in you and I!