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"palping" poems
Coiled, grey March –snow patches slow to disperse on the townscape - trying to turn the year. A grey plume drifts through the low sky, like smoke but not smoke, slow to disperse reforming and palping like a long streak of foam on the sea; a grubby bag turning, plastic and drifting dividing in the sky: a shifting exclamation mark pulls out of shape turns pale to vanishing, is gone.   A sound like pages riffling, like a thousand paper fans rustling, a darkening in the air turning in the low light all together wheeling , breaking, re-combining, stretching again.  Sky geometry. Still that dry whisper-clustering of many wings holding close formation, turning and swooping together. The cloud is back, is gone, is back again – endlessly The grey light feels unnaturally late above the Eagle Rec starlings are moulding shapes, most beautiful murmuration. The complex maths of defence – stay close, stay close – turn, wheel, stay close. Against the pale dusk the moment stretches beyond bearing, that high, remote plasticity floats on as the light hesitates dragging out the turn towards darkness. The hawk must be near, striking into the crowd - spin, turn on a wing-tip, wheel close, divide and turn: with luck she will take your neighbour. The black bunched crowd drops as one, to roost, to rest.
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Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
jill-d-barker
Starlings
Coiled, grey March –snow patches slow to disperse on the townscape - trying to turn the year. A grey plume drifts through the low sky, like smoke but not smoke, slow to disperse reforming and palping like a long streak of foam on the sea; a grubby bag turning, plastic and drifting dividing in the sky: a shifting exclamation mark pulls out of shape turns pale to vanishing, is gone.   A sound like pages riffling, like a thousand paper fans rustling, a darkening in the air turning in the low light all together wheeling , breaking, re-combining, stretching again.  Sky geometry. Still that dry whisper-clustering of many wings holding close formation, turning and swooping together. The cloud is back, is gone, is back again – endlessly The grey light feels unnaturally late above the Eagle Rec starlings are moulding shapes, most beautiful murmuration. The complex maths of defence – stay close, stay close – turn, wheel, stay close. Against the pale dusk the moment stretches beyond bearing, that high, remote plasticity floats on as the light hesitates dragging out the turn towards darkness. The hawk must be near, striking into the crowd - spin, turn on a wing-tip, wheel close, divide and turn: with luck she will take your neighbour. The black bunched crowd drops as one, to roost, to rest.
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I've trashed the years and never blinked, nor cried a tear for a lost chance. It flowed, the swelling rivers of honey and milk, ‎at my feet, which i never counted or held dear. So what, ‎for my shabby soul, ‎i lived and died here. You say, i could ask for a little help, at least kneel down in a silence, for prayer or implore to wisdom of common sense, embracing defeat, succumb and concede. So what, i dont feel sorry for what i did. I am trying to be humble, though unconcscious of what that means, palping the boundaries of dreams, scratching old wounds, that heal and redeem with every probable sin. Don't expect me with dazzling success, throwing treasures at your feet. No words of comfort i can offer under the glimmering stars, brightly lit. A mere sorrow. Only defeat. You can throw a few lies to trick my mind, pretending to value its eccentricity, while you don't give a **** So what, i am a regular guy. You might still pity me, but never love.
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Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 4:27 AM UTC
FarookWalker
So What?!
I've trashed the years and never blinked, nor cried a tear for a lost chance. It flowed, the swelling rivers of honey and milk, ‎at my feet, which i never counted or held dear. So what, ‎for my shabby soul, ‎i lived and died here. You say, i could ask for a little help, at least kneel down in a silence, for prayer or implore to wisdom of common sense, embracing defeat, succumb and concede. So what, i dont feel sorry for what i did. I am trying to be humble, though unconcscious of what that means, palping the boundaries of dreams, scratching old wounds, that heal and redeem with every probable sin. Don't expect me with dazzling success, throwing treasures at your feet. No words of comfort i can offer under the glimmering stars, brightly lit. A mere sorrow. Only defeat. You can throw a few lies to trick my mind, pretending to value its eccentricity, while you don't give a **** So what, i am a regular guy. You might still pity me, but never love.
Continue reading...
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