Tag Archives: poem

RELAPSE

RELAPSE

here again
I relapse into
poetry

has to be
a syndrome
think I need
to get it
checked out

imagine myself
in the consulting room
being examined,
waiting upon
the diagnosis

fearing
that this might
just be incurable
a sickness
handicapping me
for the rest
of my life

ending what we
have here
on such
a downbeat

need to
write something
to provide
counterbalance

something dancing
across the page
brimming with life

WINDOW

WINDOW

my window open
rain
  thundering down

a bedraggled cat
caught in the downpour
squeezing his
lithe body
through the burglar guards

sometimes it is good
when natural storms
hit epic proportions

takes the gloss of
political storms, global
clashes that lead
to outright warfare

show us
that little in this moment
is worth elevating

our species
lacking the tactics
and strategy
to find peace at all

my window open
the rain still raging

everything thought here
under the shadow
of getting
washed away

TONE

TONE

sense
intention
feeling
tone

but what
is tone

and where
is tangible?

told there is a field
where every tiniest
bit of thing
is just potential
possibility
popping in
and out
of existence

you me
all this
sense, intention, feeling

is just
a nebula of things
beyond language,
beyond description

having their
merry way
with you

merry way
with me

bringing – – if
you do indeed see this
and it says
what I believe it says
feels what I
feel it feels

something uncanny
into what we
might think of
as shared existence

SHOW

SHOW

was worried about structure
until a reasping voice swore
blind that when it
came to structure
there
was no such thing

and so it is with chaos
its spokesperson’s voice
always intrusive, cutting
in out of nowhere

and then a male figure
with rock star locks
sidled up
troubled me with
a story of genesis:both
gods and men
from the perspecive of
this mad hybrid

as which ovetwhelming
narration my mind
began to reel
at thr prospect of a
world birthed out
of fractals and
populated by
such wine gods

most dangerous,, over the
edge fantastic influences
no one
nowhere near
the creative has
any reason to know

and thus
shortly before dawn
he, cajoled it out
of me
sat entranced and
appreciative, deadly
snake in his lap
enjoying the show

was
worried about structute
and all
in this world and the next
sure to embody
desire to bring
an end to it

SCARS

SCARS

on You Tube
interview with an author
on the dawn of insanity
managed
to pass my time

whereupon
somewhat self-
reflexively
thought of him
always starting to write
something but then
something happens

call it a tic, call
it a, glich
findimg himself
in a script unlike
any he had fashioned

so let us say
thete was a dinosaur
or the sound
of one at least
heading up
the street

not
being a, marvel, or
any kimd of
hero, person
extraordinaire

he ran as
fast as a mere
mortal can do
(mere mortal at a time
of increasing decrepitude)

and yet, all things considered,
at extraordinary velocity
across
an entire cityscape
now, reduced
to an ash heap

happy to prove
that even if
it were false, alarm
he, had the fortitude
to escape anything
jurassic, , creatacious,
or Gestapo SS
from 39 to 45

no matter
how horrific the scare,
and how deep the left scars

NAG HAMMADI

NAG HAMMADI

a pot in a desert
a jar, an amphora

tattered pages, set
like a timebomb
to wake us
from our sleep

that is why
it was not meant
to exist
not suppised,
to be found

and yet it wS
full of deadly turn
the world upside
down gospels

such a different voice here
recorded on the spot
of the resurrected
one himself

so clear here
so
different

you could never
be alloeed to listen

mission
almost fulfilled

EMBROIDERY

EMBROIDERY

It only lasted a few minutes
but was a quite
breath-taking bit of
fire-embroidery

that, however,
was months ago
as I look for blankets
papers and rags
to create a nest
warm enough for
me to have a hope
of surviving
this winter

at least
for a few days

too cold to eat (if
there were food)
too deep below
freezing point
to put pen
to paper
(or even just
pick up a pen
before even thinking
of putting to paper)

and so little paper left
for burning
      most vanishing in
the major epic firestorm
when every
firestorm joined

not
without faith, I prayed
hard and prayed thrice daily
that the embroidery
return
    finish what
was begun.

AMEN TO THAT

AMEN TO THAT

the spaces
between words

letting me hedge
my bets
with you threatening
to go
full Plato
get universal with me

can’t
allow that to happen

need to scratch around here
making my own noise
doing (as they say
in sixties-speak)
my own
thing

the light fading
and light, searing light
an intimate part of
my origin story

what saved me
in saving my father’s
seed

thoughtful fireball
suddenly at the heart of two cities
obviating the tactical need
for father flyboy, Mr Grand Slam,

to drop serious deathload
on temples and those
sweet bridges you see
painted on
porcelain

maybe catch some
vengeful ferocious flak
my brother
told me
      without little boy and
his fraternal thermonuclear twin
(dropped on
that most Christian of
Far Eastern Cities)

he and I might
not be having
this conversation

you and I sort of making
acquaintance

whatever that
is precursor to
(the spaces
             between words
throwing
a spanner
blowing us off track)

and yet
    if we are, despite appearances
to the contrary, about to meld
go full Plato
before
     some altar

would smile and say
Amen to that. Amen to that.