Three Quarters Through 2019...

September

There were clear blades piercing the wood this morning,

Though still and otherworldly, not attacking,

Defending, yet revealing, carpets of hundred year leaf,

And dampened human dreams, and foot prints,

Timeless, as such the blades, innocent, natural,

Caused magma doubts to catalyse foot movement,

Towards true love, thus revealed, doubts trailing,

Hundred year love,

Otherworldly.

As the sun picked out the low lying mists,

In my mind,

As in this wood,

Dissecting fallen branches,

As dreams,

As loves,

As impossible corners with revealed loves,

Natural,

Not dictated by anything you could possibly catalyse.

We have spoken of this,

Just once too often.

Now I think, rashly perhaps, that I know you,

Doubts trailing,

This hundred year mist,

Reassuring the trees of their heritage as the

Sun breaks through

In early

September.

It's an annual ritual, so I probably have posted it before, but at just under one minute twenty, I don't feel compelled to apologise......

Smoking Coals.

A rare old day draws to the dark,

Time for hoarding the fire's light,

Time for remembering summers gone,

Dreaming, of those to come.

Smoking coals hint at the thoughts beneath.

We need neither light nor heat,

Time for holding each other tight,

Time for remembering lovers gone,

Dreaming, of those to come.

Smoking coals hint at the thoughts beneath.

We sing our song silently in the charm,

Time for dreaming in the howling night,

Time for remembering the lovers' dream,

Now I drown, in your lovers' stream.

A sly touch hints at the thoughts beneath.

Our eyes speak the truth in the fire glow,

Time for being lovers in the dance,

Time for remembering things that count,

We both forget the things that don't.

As you take my hand, feel love beneath.

A rare old day draws to the dark,

Time to leave the fire's light,

Time for remembering the things to come,

My heart races, as reg'lar drum.

Smoking thoughts hint at the coals beneath.

The Gate.

Then the gate slammed against the post,

The post jarred and juddered resent.

Through the fields of the unknown ghost,

Now I know, quite what you meant.

The dancers in the village game,

Flex impossible bone-structured feats,

And laughing at errors, shout your name,

Eclipse from sight by the summer heat.

Then the hat-man, road-man, bird-man,

Idles from the edge of your mind,

Miming impossible tales of a forgotten clan,

Almost as if he expected you to find.

But the gate signaled the moments lapse,

And brought you back, to this mortal coil,

The memory lingers, lets you think perhaps,

Of soft dance-prints, on the meadow soil.

Who Now Jezebel ?

Windows on your underground

The crystal in your head

Rose tinted imagery all around

In the life of the undead.

Wade into deep water,

And lose your sense of fear

Jezebel, Satan's daughter,

Sheds the unsightly tear.

She's not here, unless she's you,

One part of the unholy three,

All I see is just us two,

And the tattoo above your knee.

Doorways to the ancient place,

And the virgin's lonely walk,

Are in your mind, behind your face,

In your voice I heard her talk.

Voices.

I hear voices, but there's no-one there,

They talk to me but I can't always hear.

I don't understand everything you say,

They do.

Threads.

Threads fall from unnamed space,

Dragging gossy words as you spit,

Cutting me, or trying, but baffled,

Tiny fibres enshroud and blunt the effect.

Billions of spidery lines, verbal "window",

Dampens the onslaught of frustration,

Release the coil, sparks of static,

Failing in flaying me.

Invisible stretched snowfalls abate,

Only when the fire is out and gone,

And though grazed, I'm alive,

Survived your ferocity, and then

As your head hangs, the last droplets of venom,

Glistening on predators lips, then gone,

I collect you in aching spider limbs,

Cling then, I need this, I need us,

Saved by falling threads of calm love.

The Mockingbird.

No intent,

Her eyes reflect the mockingbird,

A hidden, dreamlike quality.

Ephemeral,

Eternal.

Intending a union with awareness,

Ignoring the jester's intent.

A gaze of comprehension,

Bitten-lip, but no false tears,

Poor clown,

Poor fool,

Soul of the heron,

Lionheart.

Grace and serenity,

Companion to queens,

And rooks,

And jesters.

Comprehending little and

Caring less.

Ephemeral,

Eternal,

Flawless and careless,

Child of the ghost.

And she knows the mockery

That they call

The Tomfool.

 

The Dream. (pt1)

Eight cubits across,

Four, and a span, deep,

Many coloured, and angled,

One-hundred-twenty widths the roof,

And lit by inner heats.

No doors, no window,

No point to refer to as 'here'.

But here I am where I'm most alive,

Inferno that I know.

Now I see "to be, to die",

And held still in after-glow.

The Dream. (pt2)

An angled place,

To dream, to dream.

Through the gate, you lead me,

Holding tight my hand,

Call it fate, I say you need me,

In this place you've planned.

A burning needle in my left eye,

Have me, kill me, eat my name.

Piss on my smoking pyre.

The hallowed alcove you created,

Where nothing can be real,

Intense illusion of love unstated,

Improvised with impressive zeal.

We strive, and our heads are one,

Our bodies smoulder yet awhile.

I am dying. We are flame.

As my death begins, I know we give,

In pure unencumbered dream,

And I realise that I only live,

In this angled place,

Your scream.

Happy September.

x