"gleaned" poems
I get accused of a lot of things at first glance
"You're simplistic, you're hiding something
You have no convictions, you don't think deeply"
Usually by those who I consider to be on intellectual crutches
If you're gonna come up to talk to me from a religious context
from a spiritual context
from a hierarchical, metaphysical, eat this **** popsicle mindset
Don't expect me to swallow
Don't expect me to talk
You won't like what I have to say
Because really you just want me to agree with you
If you want me to respect your framework
When you have nothing but the claims of quacks
and the feelings you gleaned from your last psychedelic trip
to back you up
While I have to sit back and listen to how I'm close minded
Close minded for wanting some real truth in this universe
unfiltered, raw, verifiable, and in my hand
and that anything other than that is a spray paint over
my true awakening
Then I guess I'll just have to be that *******
to die for these intellectual sins
The Eldest Son of Matt, hater of pretense
Hypocrite to the highest level
Build me up into a figure of idolatry
Just like you do with the rest of your ego cases
Priests, Gurus, Rabbis, Rockstars, Poet sensations
Tell me how wonderful it is to listen to them
Tell me how I should be more in touch with a tree
Tell me how I don't dream
When all my life is but that
Tell me how I'm not deep when you make no attempt to learn
Who I am, and where I have come from
Misinterpret my teachings, and claim me to feel
As if I was the newest son of god
When all I want is for people to get beyond blinders
and love each other, and to get beyond the metaphysical rat race
Tell me that I'm supposed to live and let live
While you jam your beliefs down my throat
and expect me to respect getting philosophically tea bagged
Tied up to the crucifix
and asking me to repent for my search for truth
Jun 3, 2014
Jun 3, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
*Hungered for a taste
of your elixir's essence,
drunken inhalations
of your poetry
a splendiferous whirl
of time & space 'tween
darkly scented moons
and sun's adoration,
blithe starry nights
amidst meditative new
dawn's effervesce,
spirited of the heart,
gleaned in the soul,
yearnings of another
chapter's paradise
universal experiences
etched of hourglass sand,
written upon endlessly
chimerical verses
wildflower gardens drenched
of dandelion's plum wine
swooning under a
hypnotic scripted spell,
intoxicating power
of unchained symphonies
dancing amongst skies'
released euphoria
resonating in a song's
reprised melodies,
breathlessness of delirium's
celestial pauses
in vaporous breezes'
unfurling undulation,
captivated by rhythmic
destiny reverberating in
loins' pleasurable calling
quenched of sacred
offering's quell
transcending earthly
persuasions' rhyme,
let me lick the nectar from
your poesy's insatiable lips,
sweet mercy's healing
captured in rapturous
surrender's reawakening ~*
*Je veux que vous tous,
tu me manques*
Ce que vous manquez de moi?
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
The grain has been gathered, wheat, barley and oats, cut and collected, sifted and sorted and put into store.
Grown by God, and by man with machine and by effort of hand.
Poppies and stalks now mark the spot, of the return for their labour. The wealth of the land.
Birds follow the tractor, rising and falling, swirling and soaring they move like a cloud.
The farmer is out and turning the stubble into the ground.
Rooks and crows, gulls and wood pigeons, starlings and magpies follow him round.
Hay long since mown is now bailed and in barns, or rolled up and bagged, ferments now in high silage towers.
The countryside has yielded reward for all Adam’s toil.
Work done in rhythm with the seasons, sowing, growing, reaping, ploughing and tilling the soil.
Gathering goodness, from garden, and greenhouse, carrots and courgettes, tomatoes in bunches.
Fresher than any you can get in the shops.
Picking the bounty gleaned from the hedgerow. Rosehips and cobnuts, damsons and hops.
Elder and sorrel, mushrooms and puffballs, sour green crab apples, and brambles in tangles.
Sloes that were missed by the late winter frost.
Not all are pleasant and some really can hurt you, pick only those that you know and trust.
Take full advantage of God’s generosity, share it with gladness, with thanks, there is plenty for all.
Sticky syrups and cider, wines, cordial and beer.
Pies, puddings, sorbets and ice creams, jam, jelly, and chutney and enough pickles to last into next year.
As the warm days of summer give way to chill, and shadows grow longer as days shed their hours.
High winds and rain storms scrub the tired landscape down.
Colours are changing from rich green to gold, from yellow to red and orange to brown.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC
Let me keep in secrecy the troubles that have befallen me. For if she sees the worries written upon me she's sure to make note and in turn ask me for my reasons of longing. My sudden unbelonging for it is not here I want to be, cast into shadows walking amongst the lost and forgotten treading on a muddy Valley floor whos paths were long worn and trotted with many a misery, and snare. Please let my feet not fail me nor my minds eyes bury me in fear. Let these tribulations befuddle me no more instead place my mind on beauty and lend me a message of hope and prosperity a figurative ladder to reach heights of lights gleaned with Emerald ethereal glow and plate colors pure as snow glown in strewn out rows across the skies like Aurora Borealis
May 5, 2022
May 5, 2022 at 5:27 PM UTC
I turned as new resigned:
A summer gleaned, my business was within,
My charge the sober mind,
My care the wintry bin.
And found the boughs in stain,
Past-promise-hued. O not
Before, earnest as rich was yet so plain;
A harvest was ungot.
Beech drenching down my pathway goldenheart,
Ash, pensive light-cheek rose,
Both pluck the thought apart,
And meant you, heart, to close?
So fell the doomed farewells;
So, so looked forth a thing:
Regret, reproach, what else
Must baffle, vex, beguile this severing
2.3k
remembering
memorial day just days away
now a special celebration
drenched from over-soul pondering
greeting emerson this eve
his 209th year
poor richards
a place for welcoming
many memories disjoined
all gleaned from our
decades of living
a seeming descent
as we spoke and we
listened
antique autos remembered
youthful power and speed
swimwear two-piece and worn
shock and awe
by our nun
a dog shady by name
departure left questions
of lingering life
youthful dark deeds
some expressed some
in silence remained
memories with colors
some of an evil hue
deceased birds and a snake
regret and sorrow
thickening memories
some weighing still
then a reversal
recent memory brought forth
an injured slight bird
poor richards
again our place of recall
a hummingbird wounded
a new life endangered
dim prospects trapped
our darkened concern
clumsy intention then
unexpectedly blessed
a young woman appeared
joining intention with
her joyful acceptance
a bird found home
revival and rest
this memory of rescue
brought spirits ascending
with the bird our recovery
celebration resumed
glasses now lifted
new beginning
emerson 209 soon
("We sink to rise." RWE)
May 26, 2012
May 26, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
The fleeing clouds have cleansed the tawny earthen meadows
Migrating sun doth steal away waning light of summer’s glee
High atop fir boughs bow in wind whispered homage
To the sapience the coloured leaves hath gleaned
The sweet scent of auburn brindled pinecone clusters
Ooze of glistening pitchy resinous fruit
Sticky figured squirrels chatter while they gather,
Stashing a survival cache of acorns and spinner seeds,
For another moment in sleepy winter tide dreams
A swirling eddy of spiraling leaves whirl beneath the tall timber
Fluttering gracefully with a gravity only falling leaves embolden
Enchanting like the evanescent timbre poignant piano notes decay
Writhing silent as summer Jasmine’s fragrant final bloom
Dandelion wishes soaring higher to kiss the fleeting winged skies
Lazily adrift up and over Cascade Mountain Crest
Fuzzy treetop flyers ascending far beyond darting dragonflies below
The sliver of golden harvest moon’s blossom aglow ,…
While wishing upon a shooting star's paling gleams
Serendipity sown about whimsically in the blustery wind
For to sow the will of untamed heart’s desires
A festive troop of Chickadees clinging like tiny acrobats
Foraging on ripened ginger hued fir-cone seeds
Wings to the sky wave goodbye to the deciduous cadence
Softly wafting with a pungent Lavender potion scented breeze
There is a secret place where memories go to hide deeply alive
Amongst the wild wood and impending leafless trees,
The only place on earth I've ever understood a sense of belonging
Where Autumn coloured leaves whisper in the gentle breeze ,…
“I would do it all over again”
Come September ,..when the leaves come falling down
© ... September 15th, 2016
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
Though I am bold and young at heart,
Tempered by the varied winds,
I must not forget
What I gleaned from your eyes
As you peered into mine
I saw you.
The taste of lime and dim light
Fetter as I took you away from the crowd
From strangers to lovers,
We came and went,
Our fondness disheveled covers
Subtext, riddles through course encounters
I lay alone those nights and reminisced
The touch I sought was yours
Periodic formal dinners
Gave way to more late nights as
Friends followed the informal
And soon, no secret
I see our friends come and go,
But we, we never leave.
On crowded sunlit beaches
With the rest
We step on rocky sand
I take you for granted
Juggling careers,
Dreams we dreamt since we were kids
It all falls short of machinations
But that which stays had no division
Rarely speaking
Those words which grow ill with repetition
As we grow together in flore
Now dim lights keep the flowers by your bedside table
Subtle patter of branches against a doctor’s window
Is all I hear against the swell of loss
I see me old, but still young at heart,
Weakened by the varied winds,
And I never forgot
What I gleaned from your eyes
As you peered into mine
What I know is I’d love you
Worthily through life
And, as life leaves, preserve it
I see it in your eyes
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 1:08 AM UTC
Desired to be more attuned with idols
Their private lives gleaned from
Stills and moving images cutting swaths across
Skyscraping billboards, TV screens
The sides of passing buses
Subway cars headed deeper in,
Further in, beneath
Magazine spreads pulled out for
ad-hoc posters taped and tacked across
the plaster-sputtering suburban drywall paths
Like screams in arctic winds
Many, the young mean-spirited things
Wanting kinship with these enemies
Trying to plot a course to
**** diagonally-up across
their strident wildlife scenes
Attuned with idols riding their
phantom wavelengths with the
maverick assistance of Reds and
water-cut pints of irish whiskey
Then Father comes in proclaiming
to have saved our democracy on
the whim of a lever-pull upon
a municipal voting machine
No interruptions now please
I will direct the favors of my unborn
I am honed in on what really matters:
Hemingway hedonism.
Getting dead with generations
slinking in and out of frame
from before and after
me
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 2:25 PM UTC
The gloom that breathes upon me with these airs
Is like the drops which strike the traveller’s brow
Who knows not, darkling, if they bring him now
Fresh storm, or be old rain the covert bears.
Ah! bodes this hour some harvest of new tares,
Or hath but memory of the day whose plough
Sowed hunger once,— the night at length when thou,
O prayer found vain, didst fall from out my prayers?
How prickly were the growths which yet how smooth,
Along the hedgerows of this journey shed,
Lie by Time’s grace till night and sleep may soothe!
Even as the thistledown from pathsides dead
Gleaned by a girl in autumns of her youth,
Which one new year makes soft her marriage-bed.
1.9k
A breathe of words ―
a gust of thought scattered;
welling silence ruptures
bulging vault chambers
with the patience
of tongue-tied hearts
In a long deep breath
pith of soul manifests;
rich with the breathing spirit
of life that's passed
A timeworn lid spinning
on a blue glass jar
Indigenous roots
and memories tender,
perpetuity gleaned
and garnered
on fruit cellar shelves
Segues of ancient culture ―
evolution derives
from many roots
trying to catch
time in a bottle;
a travelogue
of saved beginnings;
magic beans
in a mason jar
Life’s native seeds gathered ―
organic building blocks
the immemorial soul
of the earth sown
and reaped;
sprouting unstilted
continuum
for which
ever fleeting time
cannot hold
Jesse e Stillwater
09 May 2018
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 12:54 PM UTC
God doesn't love me he never did
Even from the start as a little kid
I was so innocent
Or maybe just ignorant
I don't know which
But stepdad threw the switch
And I was neither this nor that
My soul just went splat
I hit a wall so hard and strong
I would forever always be wrong
No matter what choice I made
It all ended up so decayed
This life is no fun
I live it far from the Sun
But I could never hurt anyone
So why is it so
That upon my soul
That the sorrow it grows
And the stale wind blows
How could God hate me so much
That my life would turn out as such
That the agony just grows
In the memories that it's sows
Makes me wish this life was no more
I'm hollow to the core
I don't want to hurt any more
So take this living corpse of mine
In all of its great decline
Do with it what you wish
For it never will see any bless
So use it up and spit it out
Because after all isn't that what love's all about
Because that's all I've seen
In the 46 years that I've gleaned
So use me now, or use me latter
You'll always be just a hatter
In this mind of mine there is no doubt
That this thing called life I want to bow out
And forever be no more
And settle the score
I want to stand on that judgement day
And hear what God really has to say
Let him look me in the eye
Let him see me cry
From all that he did not save me from
And why he left me here so numb
That all I can do is shout
Is this what love is all about!
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 4:24 PM UTC
My imagination is always there,
drawing pictures for other bits of my brain to see what it means
And what's gleaned helps me to think of things,
Like now, when I can't think of what to say
He'll think of something right
and I'll probably ignore it
Because I usually don't take advice,
Especially from you, you trickster
He's always making me laugh at the wrong times,
In the street replaying a youtube video
of a man accidentally washing his hands in a festival ******
"Don't think of it now you'll make me look homicidal"
And then my imagination would put it on
And my laugh became tidal,
trying not to laugh is the hardest thing to hide of all...
But he did come up with a way to make me look smooth instead
now if he makes me laugh he wraps an imaginary bluetooth to pretend to be on
round my head
I like it when you tell me stories when I go to
sleep,
sometimes they are too exciting and I can't sleep
but I like that too,
and when you make dreams
especially if they follow on from the previous stories,
I love sequels
it's funny how they never end
except with death,
and even then maybe
it's just that part's not been released yet
when I was younger
you used to scare me in the dark
With bit's of scary films
and in the sea with a shark
that you got from Jaws
(You were a bit of a ******* that way)
but often we would get on and we would play
war games and car racing
imagined killings and engines sounds
whilst chasing
in the playground,
We don't do that now
We've changed
there's stranger things
to be seen in the clouds
these days
I hope you don't mind
If we finish this rhyme
but I'm worried for the things you might say.
Sep 30, 2013
Sep 30, 2013 at 10:56 AM UTC
It started with existence
just a lowly perspective of a mute
time when I was able to
make sense of this pressure
make sense of why
you are now here to guide me now
on this looser journey; a lonely crabapple
still grappling at shriveled skin creating a face
that I still
cannot
distinguish.
With the end of presence as we know it
you have finished, rightly
in my dressing room
bright screen lit up
but only for a moment do I dare look away.
It started with you, and it will end with you
Closed off from me, shortly
your bioluminescence radiant,
your perfection incomplete.
I’ve known you for six straight years
or was it five
just enough
construed construction, a bloated
piece of mind that left me free to wander
aimlessly down I path I cannot recognize.
It was you who caused my blunder,
keeping me awake every night
with your brightness and distraction and amiable personality.
I decorated you with bits of me,
tangled in and out like woven webs of cybernetics
optimal connections, you died twice and I revived you.
But that was in the past
and you still cling on, for how much longer
I shan’t not know.
Only that what it means to exist
when I should be letting go.
I have to face the trust of reality and its weakened points;
that dangerous, well-formed world I find myself in.
I hope you can follow me
as long as you are able,
my clunky plastic compadre
your heart is metal mixed with other
kinds of fragile contraptions.
I know this end to my happiness is not your fault.
You were there when I needed you most,
even if you are a tool of innocence turned foul.
I once learned all of existence from your knowledge,
gleaned myself raw
trying to let you help me
understand myself.
We are not truly over because I am bound to you
somehow
even though I’ve used you for my own gain
abused your trust and have my own heart slain.
All I ask is for you to give me a chance
to make it right
again.
And then I can move on to better things.
And not be obsessed of what you think of me.
And find a way to pull myself together.
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 7:25 PM UTC
i would have been barefoot
with cuffs not hemmed
and rolled
but its not fashion
my jeans are aged
but not from design
i wear my life
into a one roomed class
it dons a bell tower
and, post-toll
no one prays
one instructor for all
each led in divergent direction
according to our abilities
and while the greater lot
learns an appealing cursive script
i curse at the blank pages before me
in my simple way
passing them as notes
but they fall on ears
as barren of hearing
as the recipients feet are
of the callous and sediment
that make mine
breathe life into my narrative
but here no lessons are taught
however gleaned from discord
interpreted through grime
grime and rebuke
filtered through shallow waters
through embattled plains
rife with mole hills and ant piles
scattered with patches of knee high grass
spotted with blooming indigenous flora
Jun 10, 2014
Jun 10, 2014 at 1:37 PM UTC
Read the words upon the page
Depicting how was such an age
That, then, ensconced in everyday
In truth, permitted Hell to play.
Where age with all it's wisdom gleaned
Should logically be rightly seen
As guidance for emerging youth
Where past mistakes impart as truth.
Though tragically, bereft as seen,
The actuality now doth scream
For youth doth relegate to grass
Aged wisdom's pearls.... as shattered glass.
Dispersed amid the flotsam tide
Lies that which salves salvation's hide,
Lies that which wreaks of God's works, twist,
Dispersed through cold, Alzheimer mist.
The waste of ancient eyes at rest
Expelled, devoid of life, at best
But should a crisis start to burn
Old minds may co-opt young to learn?
History makes the paradigm
That thumps the lesson home, with time,
In squandering the wealth of age
We burn the story, tear the page.
Now delegated to the shelf
Immersed in indignation's self
Old wallow in blue pity's taint
Inhibited by self restraint.
But then the moment comes around
When happenstance, by chance compound,
When youth, of clear complexioned face,
May stumble into mute disgrace....
Thence whilst the Angel trumpets grace
Whence in that vacant, silenced space,
Then flows of wisdom tumble thine
From lips that spake in ancient time.
Knowledge held in Holy Grail
Empirically forth then, when regaled,
As pomp and circumstance decreed
Should all, combined then, .... be agreed?
M.
9th December 2022
Foxglove@Taranaki,NZ.
Dec 8, 2022
Dec 8, 2022 at 10:20 PM UTC
I’ve strode this road of war and love
And born it’s bile and spleen,
I’ve wept at death and laughed at birth
But nowhere have I seen,
A sweeter place to live and die,
To quest for things supreme,
Than to forge these days of hard forays
In the Land of In Between.
Candied apples hang from boughs
Like jewels bequeathed by Queen
And silver sounds of bubbling brook
Cascade to tumbling stream,
Parakeets in vivid hue
Fly by with shreeking scream
In forest’s green majestic light
In the Land of In Between.
Paint no man black or vivid white
Whilst points of view be gleaned
With race and politics ignored
Then manifest, obscene.
Where labour be a man’s reward
And filthy lucre screened
As noxious be a spider bite
In this Land of In Between.
Where hate be strangled to the end
Then with a keen blade ,sheened,
Be put to death with avarice
No guilt or guile redeemed.
Leaving in the pristine wake
A countryside so clean
That God be queuing up to live
In this Land of In Between.
All ****** love be sacrosanct
And soft endearments seemed
As normal as the light of night
When by the moon dust preened.
And that laughter be our currency
Affection always seen
As bonding in fraternity
At the Land of In Between.
M.
Foxglove, Taranaki NZ.
30 January 2016
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 6:33 PM UTC
Sitting in a café on a Saturday afternoon,
softly humming to the singing and guitars.
My mind sails back to thought of you from years gone by too fast,
while songs of love come floating from afar.
Like memories gleaned sweat by time these songs bring more than tears,
as chords of Harvest Moon come shining through.
The years we walked together now are more like far off rhymes,
but then what I wanted most was you.
Familiar are these old songs that are played and sung through time,
that I find myself just rockin' to the tune.
And I like to think these melodies will someday make us see,
all these songs will lead back to deja vu.
Deja vu, would you play my song again,
a song to make those memories never end?
A song to make those moments stay and take me back to yesterday,
a song of peace to help my heart to mend.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 11:20 AM UTC
Particle pieces
gathered, gleaned-
recovered.
Stitched and sewn.
Plush patches
mortared with Mercy.
Tears uniquely unexampled.
Yet my Redeemer’s requisition.
Girded and guarded
while broken and bandaged.
My benefactioned breath…
a cloak for the King.
Nov 7, 2011
Nov 7, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
The emptiness a reminder
of what once, was there
not really ever gone
just another, empty chair
In the wake is left a grey
and hollow space
with hopes to share again
another time and place
No way to fill the void
without a single trace
the places we avoid
trying, to save grace
When grace is what we hope to find
and on becoming disillusioned
the choice to leave it all behind
sometimes seems the only solution
Holding up the memories
those no longer at our side
it's not that they aren't with us
ghostly mirroring, our strides
The spirit's essence lingers on
no longer here, yet never gone
as is the sunrise to the dawn
an eternal tune, a never-ending song
Though we grieve that they should leave our presence far too soon
our memories hold melodies of their poetic tune
so remember, the loss and pain, gleaned upon the road
it's but a simple reminder, of the poet's code
Nov 2, 2016
Nov 2, 2016 at 8:04 AM UTC
Leaves, Autumn's snowflakes
Yellow and red paint the ground
Trees are trimmed in gold
Pushed by the whispering winds
Sharing their hidden treasure
The frost bites the earth
Sending a chill to it's core
The smell of Autumn
Drowning the flower's perfume
The flowers bow in envy
Gardens stand empty
Gleaned under the harvest moon
With paintbrush in hand
Autumn becomes the artist
Painting nature's masterpiece
Nov 11, 2010
Nov 11, 2010 at 8:39 AM UTC
There was a special woman in the Bible and her name was Ruth.
She was loyal to her Mother-In-Law and God and that is the truth.
Ruth's Mother-In-Law was named Naomi and Ruth soon became a widow.
Ruth wouldn't abandon Naomi and the bond they shared continued to grow.
Naomi knew a man who was named Boaz and the two were related.
Ruth had to dress poorly but when Boaz saw her, he was captivated.
Ruth sewed clothes for the poor and she gleaned Boaz's fields.
Boaz fell in love with Ruth because she had charm and appeal.
Poor Ruth was able to work hard even though it was quite a strife.
But that soon changed when she and Boaz became man and wife.
Ruth was thankful to The Lord because she had been blessed.
When God showed his love for Ruth, it proved that he's the best.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:14 PM UTC
You have come out less who you are. You have given up on your tiny screen, maybe for that chance at your mother’s arms. Maybe that’s me, or maybe we’re both a little far away from knowing who you are: a giant queen of ease visiting strangers hearts. We know things, but to hear ourselves speak we’d need to scream
Out louder than the Red Spot afar. It was a tiny joy to feel, to feel you’d chosen me to shepherd us through the stars. This map worn with your grief leads to a hemlock branch strung hammock where I imagine laying in today’s grand autumnal festivities.
In a place where pain and disease run off together, and don’t stop to think where you and I might be.
In this world where we are
In this world where they gave you a chance
At giving up on who you were.
We were sitting out beside the sea, given a spot of almond milk to go with our tea, it was pouring art and raining beliefs, it had finally given you a chance to breathe, a child free to live without despair’s feral fiends.
Twirling, through verdant orchards caught by envies gleaned by greens’ motif.
This is not the place where I died
But rather the place I learned to stop worrying and learned to love my life.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 8:07 PM UTC
i spend my days sighing away, digging away at each layer of disillusionment. when will i get to the bottom of this? when do i get to see my bones, all bleached out to a lifeless tan? when do i get to poke them around like live coals, desperately reviving a dying fire? when do i get to see myself, in my highest, truest, most foolish form, and have the closure — both underwhelmed and overwhelmed?
i've lived longer than my younger self would've allowed; tell me, did she know me much better? did she live just long enough for me to inherit her despair? have i gone dancing too much with illusive lights, only to get home heavy, burning, and blinded? did she know it all along? did i know it all along?
tell me, was it all for this? tell me, in the name of all my splendid highs and in the drawn-out silence thereafter — is this it?
Mar 2, 2022
Mar 2, 2022 at 12:32 AM UTC
The weathervane slept high above with a lolling head.
Clouds were holidaying excessively in Spain.
Sun was lost in a haze after chain smoking cooling towers.
A lethargic wind, moseying low with cat-like whiskers,
I hear it complain “I’m tired” in child-like whispers.
My hands are sweat-sore with callouses
And salty enough to summon the call of gulls in numbers;
I find shade, imagining myself as a cartoon Huck Finn.
When I put dry grass between cracked lips and think of dustbowls
In a zoetrope of sun-stroke, I vanish through my buttonholes.
This is now where one would rise, wake or come to.
Nothing I recognise, else the world is enveloped in storms.
I strain my sight, blink repeatedly to force myself awake,
The angels are listening, I hear wheezing, see fingers in my dreams
Gripping tightly to milk thistle stars, bursting at the seams.
Amongst the angels, whispering too! Did the stars imprison you?
Free-spirit like mother, but I slept our childhood through
Sustained by knowledge gleaned from canteen floors—
My eyes feel somehow sharp, heavy, like spears more than eyes;
I thought I saw the weathervane spinning madly, unraveling the skies!
Nobody talks about the weather.
There is a good chance of wrought nerves.
This is a time of stillness and dwelling on doorsteps,
In doorways where death sits among us, resting his eyes,
An end to the ration that was harmless reminiscence
As memories go up in the heat like celluloid;
Now the stars are a steely prison
Heaven’s lustre is lost, missing.
Through the angels I have seen that this is a time of living -
Through our dreams I have seen that this is a time of living -
Outside the confinement of the Holocene.
—I have dreamt of drowning...often. I always seem to wake up out and breath and feel I can taste the salt in my mouth but fear does not play any part in these dreams.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC