"northerly" poems
SPRING
I slowly unfurl to the World
Stretching up to the sky blue
And sense an early morning chill
Of Spring waking me anew.
Each day grows a little warmer
As daylight hours extend
Making this leaf feel fresher,
Tothe bright sunlight I bend.
SUMMER
I’m at my most greenest now,
Hot sun burns upon my veins;
How glad am I to finally enjoy
Those cooling, copious rains.
At which point, I pour in drips,
A refreshing, rousing trickle
That falls on grass and buttercup
Teasing them with a tickle.
AUTUMN
Mists have now arrived, enshrouding
My form with heavy dew;
The greens has all but leached away,
Bled from veins no longer new.
Down below the tree are vivid reds
Browns and translucent golds
Which, increasingly each day now
People their captivation holds.
WINTER
The first frost of Winter
And a biting, northerly breeze
Cut into me,and scores of others
Were torn from their trees.
I’ve fallen now, to the ground
All wrinkled, and utterly fragile
Awaiting my final hour
Until, I meet my funeral pile…
Jan 20, 2012
Jan 20, 2012 at 1:50 AM UTC
Remembering the Strait of Belle Isle or
some northerly harbor of Labrador,
before he became a schoolteacher
a great-uncle painted a big picture.
Receding for miles on either side
into a flushed, still sky
are overhanging pale blue cliffs
hundreds of feet high,
their bases fretted by little arches,
the entrances to caves
running in along the level of a bay
masked by perfect waves.
On the middle of that quiet floor
sits a fleet of small black ships,
square-rigged, sails furled, motionless,
their spars like burnt match-sticks.
And high above them, over the tall cliffs'
semi-translucent ranks,
are scribbled hundreds of fine black birds
hanging in n's in banks.
One can hear their crying, crying,
the only sound there is
except for occasional sizhine
as a large aquatic animal breathes.
In the pink light
the small red sun goes rolling, rolling,
round and round and round at the same height
in perpetual sunset, comprehensive, consoling,
while the ships consider it.
Apparently they have reached their destination.
It would be hard to say what brought them there,
commerce or contemplation.
3.7k
Again the moonlights company
4 am. She's somewhere.
About the skies glow
Stars flicker eyes turn
Search seek
A lone northern light
A light show
I gaze up to search for
And she's there I turn. My
Sight looks beyond now
Beyond my dim sight
Farther than I can reach
And I hope.
I remember
I close my eyes
And see.
But
For tonight
Her memory
And the moon
Light glow northerly
And a star's
Twinkle
And all my might
Are all I can see.
She is everywhere
But here...
She walked this night
in a snow covered field
as the snow blew all around
dancing diamond’s, iridescent light
with a kiss, the magic was sealed.
To the sky she points, lights appear
stunning colors, fill the dark of night
a graceful dance, only he will see
the beauty of the northern lights.
To him, she sends, her heart, her soul
through lights that dance among the stars
pushing back a looming shadow
she takes comfort in their beautiful memoirs.
Closing her eyes, she sees his face
his eyes, his heart, her beaconing light
pushing back that looming shadow
bringing comfort to her fright.
So she walks this night
in a snow covered field
as the snow blows all around
dancing diamond’s, iridescent light
with a kiss, the magic was sealed.
~
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 10:50 AM UTC
Grimsby, a murky wee northerly town
And lousy with houses of seedy renown
The ladies wear only a loose fitting gown
Transactions are furtive and quick
And every street corner is coated in brass
With a ****** for every discernable class
In a spectrum of hues and selection of mass
All awaiting a dip of the wick
Diseases are spreading and taking a hold
With pimples and blisters and, finally, mould
But just when the punters are starting to fold
A saviour arrives in the nick
Doctor McNaughty, King of the Kink
And his brothel of many surprises
A welcoming smile, a comfortable bed
And some help with whatever arises
The rooms are fantastic, the ropes are elastic
With feathery leather and spikes
It wanders the street on mechanical feet
And it scoops up the punters it likes
There’s something to suit almost every wish
With strawberries and freshly whipped cream in a dish
There’s a bucket of springs and a kettle of fish
And the manacles, shackles and chains
A selection of ******* and optional clamps
There’re pulleys, tackle and half-pipe ramps
A physio suite for reduction of cramps
And the treatment of ****** strains
A marshmallow room with a candyfloss bed
And hookers of platinum, purple and red
And for those who are hankering after the dead
There’s a room full of human remains
Doctor McNaughty, Lord of the *****
A magical, mystical ****
With wonders galore behind every door
And occasional chicken or gimp
His visits are brief, but of major relief
To the multitude often attending
Then he’s off in a flash with a bundle of cash
He so loves a happy ending
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 6:25 AM UTC
2007, revised May 2nd, 2013
How neatly northerly she points her tail,
With fluffsome front paws pointing to the south;
Whiskers point west and eastwards, without fail,
Each side of her benignly-smiling mouth.
She navigates from rockery to pond
And slyly measures distances ahead,
With whiskers poised, behind a ferny frond,
Waiting to stalk fishes, with stealthy tread.
A water pistol thwarts her cunning scheme,
Fired from the door with some accuracy;
And like one rudely wakened from a dream,
She leaps into the air, and bolts to flee.
But soon her equanimity returns;
She's back smiling at fishes, through the ferns.
May 2, 2013
May 2, 2013 at 7:23 AM UTC
For the second time in March we have snow
Could someone please wake spring from her slumber
She should be here by now fighting the good fight, wiping clean the wintersmiths frosty drawings
Last year she had tucked him away
She had read him his bedtime story
Last year we had seventeen, this year we have merely two
How he must be laughing, running amok through the hills and the valleys
Turning everything white with a wave of his hand
But where is she? Even he must miss her so, even he must be longing to dance
Still it is not his place to question
He can only do what is in him to do
With a sigh he exhales a bitter northerly wind and coats the confused daffodil with a jacket of ice
Then off he goes dancing alone
Spinning wildy through the towns like a leaf in a web
Stopping only to place his hands on those foolish enough to leave flesh exposed
Maybe she has forsaken us
Maybe she has resigned her post
Like when the last ice age hit and she took a sabbatical
I hope she has just slept in
Or maybe she is just getting ready for the grandest of entries
Yes let us hope she is just sorting through her vast collection of colourful dresses
Because if she does not appear and dance the dance of seasons change
If she doesn't take the wintersmith by the hand and sing him softly to sleep
Then that giant golden skinned adonis of a man summer will not come!
Without her he will not appear
Without her beauty we will not feel the warmth of his love
Oh someone please wake spring from her slumber
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
Through a garden bedecked in the finest façade
In a natural beauty of eons compiled
An assault to the senses which quickens the pulse
Yet soothing the detail, organically styled
Its borders haphazard yet clearly defined
By a frenzied assortment of pollen clad blooms
Enhancing creation with lust and a craving
With nectar, ambrosia scented perfume
The thickets and bushes, with industry cloaked
A sprawling utopia thriving therein
With bees and with butterflies drinking their fill
And drizzled in webs which the spiderfolk spin
A meandering trail through flourishing life
An encouraging push from the sun to my rear
Entrancing, the chill of the dew underfoot
Yet thrusting itself like an ice laden spear
My sight is attracted by hidden desire
To a door at the crest of a flurry of stairs
And the stone of the flight is as fire to my soles
After languishing still as the midsummer glares
The door is ajar and within comes the sound
Of a single piano, adeptly caressed
Each note sends a shiver rebounding around me
In purity soaked and perfection possessed
I make my way forward and darkness inside
Removes me of sight as my pupils adjust
And the air is intense as a northerly breeze
And shimmers in motes cut of sunlight and dust
My eyes become clear and before me they see
Cascading and dancing a musical frieze
A picture in motion, a fairytale path
In a spectrum of tones and a myriad keys
Inspiration her name and the course she describes
Is a poem in light to beguile the mind
She speaks with her body, a wordless refrain
Of a mystery poets have clamoured to find
A pipe cuts a harmony no one could play
Distilling forever the passage of time
And though such a symphony draws at the tongue
Causality never once utters a rhyme
A pattern of shimmering images form
Behind inspiration and quickening pace
To fade with the music and ever be lost
Lest the pen of a poet can hold them in place
Most fickle of muses and teaser of tongues
To flirt with despair and to promise elation
We chase but remaining just out of out reach
Is the ghost of a girl which we call ‘Inspiration’
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
Check in impatiently
hauling light luggage -
downturned eyes,
bundled fifties,
skull packed with sickly
sugarplum notions
Stiff key-card door and
three hanger closet -
leave your mittens, jacket,
and conscience dangling
Towels
cotton-knit sandpaper
no softer than well-trafficked
threadbare tawny-port carpet and
your hands and feet pretend
not to feel it
nervously,
a bit numbly,
you notice her standing
with glacial stillness
moments away from
the foot of the bed
Two crooked lampshades and
dim headboard lights
close their eyes when
the mattress springs
first compress,
the air tingling
with dustbunny snowflakes
This room is too dark now,
something like snowblind,
but you don't really want to see
do you?
Frostbite when she touches you
and somehow this bed
is more welcoming
than your own
you'll remember her
february fingertips
and hailstone hair,
a sensation of northerly winds
strange how heavy the comforter feels
sprawled across your skin
you envision an ice slab,
see it suffocate
a slow-flowing river,
and your breath quickens
if only because your lungs
have been crushed
then, just before hypothermia,
she leaves,
lights off,
wallet lighter,
you stay whiteknuckled, lightheaded,
half-consumed by a snowdrift,
beneath the duvet -
dazed
your tongue sits confused,
having asked for peppermints
and been given ice cubes instead
and when you finally rise,
and thaw your limbs
and try not the slip
on the black ice
she always leaves
by the door,
Try to forget
you paid
hourly rates
and shed your clothes
that you might find warmpth
in a blizzard
Feb 7, 2018
Feb 7, 2018 at 6:29 PM UTC
Til twinkle pinkie rosebuds turn shrubbery so wild
wilder than the fume upon which the moonglade
climbs gloomy tide to make welcome of the night
until the little birds sing your name
then times be as happy as flame
One goldfinch and 3 white pigeons
a colourful macaw parrot and falconet
or the black crowncrane of large pinions
soul's fleeting harbinger of the lorikeet
type, as i await the little birds sing
The whole of my being approves
by the star shining in northerly clime
as in clinging on tight to a feeling so true
of grim death in moment so prime
until the birds vocalize your name
only then shall I not feel the disdain
Patience robs the clamouring chest
heels are still weary and cold in rest
and soon little birds send me tweets
by the dawn chorus of early birds' beats
shall one become happy and gay
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 2:47 AM UTC
Watching the April northerly
Blow the Spring away to sea from Galloway
Towards Ireland
The lee of the **** for shelter
Low sun warming your face
Massive frequent clouds, megalithic
Dull below to towering snow-white heaven
Their wind-driven gunmetal shadows rush out to sea
The bay, at distance, a breastplate of pewter
Beaten across with countless, tiny hammerings
With animal purpose a shape moves slowly,
Breaking the horizon heading for Man
The breeze, coltish, struggling to be gone
Headstrong with promise and challenge
A fine day for such a crossing!
Mar 18, 2011
Mar 18, 2011 at 2:21 PM UTC
There is a resonating rhythm which cultivates a warm embrace from electric boldness.
Congruence is to be found within the fire of an athame, where familiarity can direct energy from each quarter of sacred space.
As nature displays her petals with utmost sincerity, there is certain direction to northerly earth, eastern air, southern fire and westerly water.
Invocations are personal. I now feel the need to consummate our equilibrium. Please do not be offended.
Dec 5, 2013
Dec 5, 2013 at 11:52 PM UTC
Oh God, how lucky I am!
This morning, I went out as the **** crowed
I've seen what I saw every day,
but I had never noticed.
The birds sang, the sky stretched with all shades
of blue, yellow and white;
Northerly winds coming and whispering in my ear,
that somewhere a beautiful soul is awaking from sleep
and maybe, she's looking at the very same,
divine pictures carved in clouds as I am.
How lucky I am! I own nothing, but I have everything,
I am only a little man, and still I am part of the world
and of the marvelous godly spark that burns bright
in the endless void of the Universe, cradled and protected
by the invisible cosmic forces that, from far away,
today, have brought me the wind .
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 3:12 AM UTC
~
A breathless hush lingers in
whispered moments sent a’ flutter
upon warm horizons glowing
and a sapphire sky’s mist
Afloat on northerly breezes,
delicate dandelion ripples
caress you softly
in the haven of my love
Jun 8, 2015
Jun 8, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
Gushes of tears run down my featureless face
I failed to find you, now I walk in disgrace,
the destruction was swift and everything but honest
now I stare at the black ugly wound of a broken promise
newspapers cartwheel alongside litter and soiled bank notes
as the northerly wind whispers, between each building it chokes
cathedrals and churches alike collapse
the sun burns blue, sky bloated and raging with thunderclaps
icy waves dancing to a dance-less tune
shadows arising from the corners to defile and exhume
I'm suffocating in my mind, I'm gagging on this dead world
my sanity like my nails - twisted and curled,
I've got cuts and bruises that can't be seen
I try thinking of you but the pain just plagues my dreams
over and over I see the tears in your eyes - stuck like a record, time does freeze,
catching your wail upon the wind I fall to my knees
[her body lies under the rubble of a society dead and gone
I've lost everything, alas I'm not the only one]
gazing at the black sky above, praying to a sun merciless and blue
yes, this world may be falling around me,
but I will still find you.
Dec 27, 2015
Dec 27, 2015 at 9:27 AM UTC
I went to the sea to heal my heart.
I found a balm
in the sighing waves,
the soothing salty air.
She's a fickle lover; It's often said
by sailors and ******
and other lost souls
whose songs become the wailing wind.
The mad man has the saddest laugh;
maniacal and strange,
with tears in his eyes,
pleading for lost love's return.
I'll climb the rigging and heave the line
perhaps in time
I'll forget why I came,
and only curse the northerly wind.
Three points off the starboard bow
I see her walking
on the waves.
My heart still has far to go.
I've come to laugh that burnt tragic laugh
of men who stay
too long at sea
and now I've forgotten why I came.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:39 PM UTC
It is as it is,
and was ere,
again I’m paired to
restroom pantile,
resilient sickness
can redefine docile
to nothing northerly,
o'er the day is
only forgery
to an nightly
mainstay,
this white flag
has been waving
to porcelain for
oft fortnights
shining footlights
on an innocent reflection,
allay this suffocation,
let me breathe again,
foremost is always
surviving tomorrow,
though I'm a swain to
the ***** of today.
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
~
Stupid **** cat
Attempting sleep on the balcony, a railing at my back,
twisted iron creating stripes on my skin
Crisscrossing as I slide across a Craigslist mattress
or not, still my body moves
slightly used
The cool night air shifts direction
west becomes east (ah east) on a northerly flow
Dry leaves gather at my feet, dead but still with some color left
extending beyond the shadows now painting me with patterns
security lighting
Small slits where my eye lids blink find the neighbor’s cat
now chooses my chest to sharpen its claws
A quick swat sends him flying,
taking small pieces of my skin as a trophy
starting from scratch
New scars eventually seek old scars,
I can feel them reaching, (blood trickles on wrinkled sheets)
digging through my skin, exploring the muscle,
the tissue, finding the damage done to my heart
sliced open
Tunnels carved into my body, wormholes to a different dimension
Time passes beyond the depths of my being, flooding streets
and low water crossings with the pain (excruciating), echoes holler,
holding the volume to a dull roar
strange sounds
A siren in the distance startles me, breath leaves me as I sit up
reaching for my chest, nothing is there
Alongside me you sleep, peacefully
I touch your skin , a smile finds your face
so very beautiful
And I thank my lucky stars for sleep (finally), this dream,
the comfort, the softness in visions pure of love,
as reality is left outside, two stories up
on a balcony with a twisted iron railing...
stupid **** cat
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
It was a night unlike the nights before and longer if that can be true of any night where Angels flew with witches.
Do you think, that night was flat?
I ironed out the early evening late day sun unaware of events to come and sallied as I usually did,with hooded eyes to see surprising things occur.
In Hoxton Square and City Road where the dying light unloads its feeble rays,where days of top hat and tails once sailed into the West.
End is always best much better than the starting out.
A shout cuffs in on the Northerly breezing sleeve of winds that never leave this soul..
Buy me gas for a lighter head..words said,spoken from those tortured lips where sadness slips upon the oily streets.
Young girl sleeping in the rain..soaking up more pain on which no passing eyes will glance.
No measure there,no chancing of a lady fate to close that wound..without a sound or with no sound to hear..her eyes quite clear in the evening air,laying there for all the world to see and yet unseen.
Another queen of broken promises of beaten faces,broken heart the endings are maybe not as good as when we start.
Another night unlike and yet the same for some who sway with dreams upon the warming sun that they once knew.
Another do or die another sadness yet to lie..yet and die.
I cry myself to sleep.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 9:09 AM UTC
early autumn hint
faintest cool northerly breeze
whispered he's coming
Sep 17, 2019
Sep 17, 2019 at 11:50 PM UTC
Cover me with the haze of
Fragmented years,
Let me sleep through this autumn
Where rains greedily devour
Dying leaves,
And streams flow into the rotten silence.
Clothe me with the moss
Which grew in the wrinkles of the forehead,
Make me senseless for the cruel fingers of the northerly wind,
And the silver which dwells
On Venus Hill,
Just leave my eyes naked
To count in them rings of the birch tree,
Which cut down
Our immeasurable distance.
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 4:27 AM UTC
Blow on me, northerly breeze
Dry my watery eyelids
From the tears that drop
Like the Arabian trees
Cry their medicinal gum.
Oh, summer aroma
That does justice to break my defiance against this heat.
Heated affair, may you incinerate in the Sahara,
And chill to death as the night approaches in that
barren landscape.
But here I lie
Bored, invisible in the haughty summer
And behind those darkened forests
Begins a steady haunted drummer.
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 6:10 PM UTC
It was a night unlike the nights before and longer if that can be true of any night where Angels flew with witches.
Do you think, that night was flat?
I ironed out the early evening late day sun unaware of events to come and sallied as I usually did,with hooded eyes to see surprising things occur.
In Hoxton Square and City Road where the dying light unloads its feeble rays,where days of top hat and tails once sailed into the West.
End is always best much better than the starting out.
A shout cuffs in on the Northerly breezing sleeve of winds that never leave this soul..
Buy me gas for a lighter head..words said,spoken from those tortured lips where sadness slips upon the oily streets.
Young girl sleeping in the rain..soaking up more pain on which no passing eyes will glance.
No measure there,no chancing of a lady fate to close that wound..without a sound or with no sound to hear..her eyes quite clear in the evening air,laying there for all the world to see and yet unseen.
Another queen of broken promises of beaten faces,broken heart the endings are maybe not as good as when we start.
Another night unlike and yet the same for some who sway with dreams upon the warming sun that they once knew.
Another do or die another sadness yet to lie..yet and die.
I cry myself to sleep.
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
Out of the mouth of a terrible dogfish she came,
A modern-day Cinderella, but avid shoe geek,
Stabbed to death by stiletto on the Castle Turret,
Done in by her own spiked heels.
There was even a sign posted
Warning of the danger,
"Wear the wedge instead,"
Jiminy Cricket had said.
"I'm no fool,"
Her final utterance
Before tripping out in Thule.
All this just to dance with a wretched boy,
The scapegrace,
Who laughed derisively
In his maker's face,
Then stole his wig.
And as he fled with Candlewick
To the Land of Toys,
He dreamt of Lederhosen & feather hat,
To be seen in Tyrolean as the real McCoy.
Alas, here came the Northerly Wind,
Angry at the boy's lack of moral fiber,
To cast him out & lay bare his sin.
And as the rope passed
Unnoticeably 'round his wooden neck,
On this noose he did swing,
One long shudder, he was done and hung,
Stiff & insensible yo-yo on a string.
The moral of the story, boys & girls:
Fairy-tale Romance is like having
A venomous snake for a pet,
It's cool & fun & magical,
Until you get bit.
Nov 4, 2019
Nov 4, 2019 at 12:16 AM UTC
A reflection
Today is the last day of June and thanks
to a northerly wind and some rain, it has been a good month.
It is a Siberian airstream wonder if it knew
I was a communist until I saw it was just a dictatorship
where men in ill-fitting suit decided our future usually so old
they lived in another century their idea of freedom had
little to do with reality.
Today Russia is a modern state semi – democratic and there
is a freedom of speech if played by soft violin music.
But Russia is worried the mighty USA is spoiling for a war.
I will not think of the afternoon, enjoy the cooling wind
and let the world pass by.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 3:59 AM UTC