Herons.
From
this tranquil hole, gentler springs,
scent,
light, peace,
My
eyes picked up her approach,
Did
my heart fly, soar with herons?
Banking,
turning, wheeling, in the promise of life?
Did
she burn with star-fire, rhetoric?
Fireworks,
dragon-souled, and infinite majesties?
I
caught your smile, let it enfold,
Warming
and welcome.
And
held out empty arms to return,
Such
gentle spring love,
Scented,
tranquil,
To
hold the promise.
Brief Existence
In the middle of this
brief existence
a note of shattered
glass hit the words
that remained behind
forgotten
on a beach of stars and
fish and anglers
waiting until the glass
was gone and
left until the day has
ended
where we started and
came in to hear the words
that the girl was
chanting as she said
she knew how lovers can
do nothing
but destroy and burn
the fires
that lit that night in
your eyes
and glass was
everywhere to see
and the waves rolled
over the young angler
as he waited for his
song to start and
then to join the
dancers in the circle of old stones
where the spell was
cast and the words
were so ancient and
beautiful
girls upon the waters
that flowed into the sea
that never stopped and
never to be in love
again and again she
cried she needs you
more than I guess the
right way is now to stray
and wander like the
glassy child whose eyes are deep
and run down into the
roots of all
so tell me child why
can't the sailor come to jig
upon this shore of
yours and sing and play
harmonica with demon
steps and horn‚d voice
that brings no fear to
those with ears to hear
the loved one that
hides within the very middle
of the broken chord
that battles in the chant
of a girl who knows
what love can be
to those of us who
don't understand
just how far from
either end
of this incorrigible
existence lies the middle
of this brevity that is
full of broken glass
to dance upon to the
crazed old tune
of the drunken old
sailor who would be beached
with anglers given just
half a chance.
Dance.
Echo.
Listen carefully, and
you will hear,
An echo of me in you.
Watch closely and see,
Me, in everything you
do.
Think
of Gardens
That
all-drown word,
All
poets flock to worship,
Contains
duties, tastes, hand-cuffs,
Joys
and tears.
Heart-warmth,
gloves,
Passionate
release, agendas, their's,
Tools
to unwrap meanings, argue,
In
poisonous allegory,
Deep
longings, but bloody hobbled, Achilles,
Drowning
in the mirrors, and diaries,
Planning-man,
Lost
hope, Davey's Locker,
While
drowning, think of gardens......
Prickly, and complicated......
I am slowly bending to the share things you love, like "your dogs" thing....
SORRY!
SORRY!
Upstreaming
Took a long hard swim
upstream,
Push, flick, kick, turn
and leap,
Air burns my gills, but
then, next,
And again, my instinct
driving me.
Then
On my side, on a rock,
Missed, confused,
water-less,
Stranded, again,
In your world, alien.
Is a long hard twitch
and thrash,
To return to mine,
Would've made it too,
But got fast in this
ancient landslide...
Five moons of drowning
in air,
And beer and insanity,
depression, crazy time,
And "Waltzing Matilda",
and car crashes,
And texts, emails,
silent and abusive phones.
The waterfall, just out
of reach,
I remember the deep
warm seas, of life, and our holidays,
And pour another single
malt,
On my side, on the
rocks,
Not this time, on her
own,
Ancient medicine for
broken gills, water-less...
Twitch, thrash, in this
ancient insanity,
No more bloody car
crashes,
No more crazy waterfall
texts now,
Please, I'm burning,
waltzing beers.
