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

Throw Me a Life-Belt

Rollercoaster

Tis a strangely mad route to take

When a decision has been made

To effect and affect the world

And how

And now

And when

As the little car clings to these rickety tracks

Following ratchet demand

Defying potential and becoming kinetic

And foreign

Alien

Like most decisions before.

                                                                       Long Tailed Tits......

This one decided to just get stuck in, right in the caged feeder.....

Second Coming.

Every night remains the same,

The day before, the waiting game,

The eye for the chance,

The monument's dance.

Here in your cavern, insane,

Nobody's ever heard your name,

Called over the cliff-top,

Scream please stop, don't stop.

All the tales that went before,

The bi-millennial metaphor,

My saviour's gone insane,

Sitting in on the waiting game.

The Lord of the Dance,

The eye for the chance,

What can you see there ?

Just the cavern's wall bare.

Anglicans and Papists,

Theological rapists,

Assaulting the mind,

With you left behind.

Come out from your cave,

In the land of the brave,

Hold up your hands,

Encompass these lands.

Jesu, I implore thee,

Rise up from the sea,

Walk up from the sands,

To encompass these lands.

The Oracle.

The oracle spoke

Through the early mist

Feminine and clear, the voice

Someone you might have kissed

A voice in tongues, words no need

But You hear

I hear you clearly

But deafened by fear.

Very nearly the view from my bedroom window. Hill House, and Cartworth Moor.

The North facing side of this part of our valley, bathed in yesterday's evening sun....

Gwyn accepting that her Dad is busy trying to capture the evening light, rather than working.

Hardly any rabbits there, and we lost our old team-mate, so working the brambles isn't really a goer right now anyway......

The Virgin's Song.

If she'd just look this way,

Ah, she's seen him.

Well, let the moments play,

Even sharks learn to swim.

Learn to dream, but awake,

Alert to the chance maker.

But when I saw you, him, the snake,

The two-faced fork tongued faker.

But the meat of the Bird of God,

Is poison unto the serpents.

See, his head starts to nod,

Under Satan's breath relents.

Retreat still smiling,

Is she coming our way ?

In your head she (your numbers dialling.)

Let bravura come to play.

Fortune will smile on the righteous,

But these days are long,

No fun for the virtuous,

As they sing the virgin's song.

Wait now, pretend not to see,

Ah, the introductions,

("Please fall in love with me."

There are no compunctions.

But the reserved

Is reserved for fate,

Your loss conserved,

And lands upon your plate.

Not necessarily  aesthetically up there, but, when you see a horse on a roof, when you've your camera in hand, what would you do....!?

 

The Old Boy

A couple of kids, from the school,

Used to come round and play with him

The old boy looked at the terrier.

Then there were two more then four, then ten,

All playing, and piling on him....

I wondered.

But he never turned, never grabbed, never bit.

He threw the yellow plastic ring.

A flash of inspiration, of sharp clean, white teeth,

Finished the game, and the sentence.

With wise ironic precision and

That knowing look.

Nice to see a few sheep up on the moor again, though not a fraction of what there used to be. Maybe they're escapees...... Times are a-changing, just wish they'd change for the better, for once.

 This old road is just about a mile straight.....

The Viewpoint.

The sombre reality

Surely a matter of perception,

'The Percept'.

Sobriety, a naked concept.

Shield my shame with numb mooring,

Bob in time with the lapping tides.

And still gain some acceptance

In a world adrift from itself.

Self-delusion, and image,

Prideless lion-cub.

Sober and incommunicado

With the dreamer.

The sombre reality is

Surely a matter of deception,

'The Decept'.

An old favourite...

For the record, especially for the UK, as I'm sure there are others globally, check out The Butterfly site......

As a rule, a tripod is way better for a long-exposure, rather than a mono, but hey, these will do......

 

My mistake, this last was the 1/4000th sec one.....but hey, it's my Blog.


This is the bit where I don't do personal, but as there isn't anything personal to write, that's an easy ask. Am shut. Closed to things, while able to smile and operate and function.

It's September, and I didn't post the David Sylvian song.........not sure if that's a good sign, or not, but hey.

Presented without comment.......!

Long Tailed Tits, Nuthatches, A random Woodpecker, House-sparrows, Blue/Coal/Great Tits, Robins, Blackbirds...... and earlier this week my first visiting Goldfinches......

Just waiting until the local Sparrowhawks suss it out, as my neighbour's cat has......


Stay strong, and thank you for visiting. It actually ridiculously means quite a bit to me. x

Ennui & Ecstacy, and Cricket

Poor White Girl On Loads.

What do you think they'll call you

Twenty years from now ?

Wild child, you're such a child,

Your eyes made black

As is your style,

Your nose is full of bitterness,

Taken through a straw,

Wander in your wilderness,

Who could ask for more ?

The car stops and out you get,

You don't know who nor where,

But some promise your appetite has whet,

And so, abandon care.

No cash, no sleep, no lifestyle,

Or one I can cope without,

Empty stomach, churns up bile,

I think you won that bout.

Wild child, a flawed model girl,

Did he promise you the world ?

Or just more dope to stop your mind ?

Do you think I'm so unkind

To tease you back to reality ?

Sense and sensibility,

Bright and capability,

But senseless death will knock,

Knock, let him in.

What the hell do you think you'll be

Twenty minutes from now ?

This juvenile Heron flew into a dead-end on the local mill-race, and so we had a stand-off for a while as it decided whether or not to make a bid for freedom...... eventually I left him/her to it, but then it flew off anyway.......

This one sort of sums it up really.......

Prisoner.

Stilettos at midnight.

Wire fence reunion.

In the warcamp,

Silent brooding,

Of easily detected

Hatred.

Stiff upper lip,

Patriots tortured, and dying,

For a love of what

Secure dusty attic

Feeling ?

Blindfolded last cigarette,

And a kick in the gut,

When found out, if.

Acting predictably,

Precisely.

Slip the steel between ribs,

Garotte the throat,

Poison in drink,

And out of this hell,

Insanity.

 

Recurring Nightmare.

Crack, ancient stone tile splits asunder,

Frozen moment around midwinter's eve.

Pressure pulse beats, in ears, echo thunder,

Gives you crazed reason to disbelieve.

Safe haven,

Black raven,

Wolf howl,

Night prowl.

Hairline and light trigger-finger,

Too light to mistake the game,

Feeling a little tense, should not linger,

Panic and shattered peace spreads the blame.

Tense seconds,

Fear beckons,

Sky blackens,

Grip slackens.

Turn to meet the mare-pursuer, hunter,

In this all too lucid moment, scream not,

Be the thriller, killer, no longer just the punter,

Head-on, face me, and now its getting hot.

Did you know the sweet smell of fear ?

An old friend,

Cold end,

Alone the brave,

None to save,

No cavalry,

No sanctuary,

Fear replaces religion,

In the nightmare you turn around.

The Strange Young Man.

Adopt new posture, "The position",

Knees in chin and arse on heels,

Gently rock, the mental collision,

Does the medic know how it feels ?

The noise fills the hollow hall,

Behind your eyes, between your ears,

Voices echo from living walls,

Can nothing repel these bitter fears ?

Standing, one foot slides up your leg,

To rest, like a herdsman's upon your thigh,

You've hung on, refused to beg,

You follow this with "The world-as-lie".

No sense does the mirror make,

Of your unpunctuated soliloquies,

No offer of the route to take,

To bring you off your graz‚d knees.

So back to "foetal", clench and sway,

The 'disconnected safety zone',

No hand can help, that's not to say,

That there's even anybody home.

Now sanity comes round to say "hello",

And you dress and set off for work,

Then stiffly remember all you know,

But strangers do still dimly lurk.

The Enchantress/Flautist.

Eyes open, temptation,

A thought of forbidden fruit.

Serpent-free, frustration,

Haunt me melody flute.

Through hanging drapes of smoke,

Thoughts wend aromatic ways,

For a simple instant the moment broke,

As she dead-love discordant plays.

This savage beast remains untamed,

Charmer lost her notes.

Lonely child heart plays unnamed,

In strange dead-heads she floats.

Tempt me with melody,

You breath life through the flute,

Eros base loves' remedy,

To all my emotions mute.

Then we pass through the dance,

To the warmth of belonging,

Minds in the deep love trance,

Hold hearts, some new song-thing.

Frustrations overcome by magician,

Taste the beauty fruit,

With no hint of vague suspicion,

The words of a silver-flute.

Rob says: "More Imagerism."

Not only is it dark,

It is loud too.

Not full of heaving bosoms,

Not full of posing,

Its true.

The beer's free, the wine is too,

Although suspect.

No strutting for impression,

Simply sitting and being,

Happily scrawling tripe.

But, what has this to do with

Anything ?

The hour is witching,

The beer is too.

Not full of heaving poseurs,

Not full of bosoms,

Its true,

Although suspect.

Not only is it dark,

Its loud too,

Simply sitting, and being happy.

Rob says: "This is certainly an idea."

Beside me is a space,

The space is empty and cold,

Not only that, but it has a shape.

Cold maybe, but shaped then.

The form this space has now,

Is fair to look upon,

Smiling, a warm shape, cold only

In its absence.

The space is shaped in curves,

The curves are gentle and calm,

The calm is curved heavenly,

The heavenly emptiness is formed,

Formed in the smiling absence of warmth.

Not only that, but in curves.

The heavenly cold now has shape,

The shape is heavenly and warm,

The emptiness is shaped in the form

Of a woman.

The woman is heavenly, and absent,

The cold is the absence,

The absence is the warmth,

The warmth is the woman,

The woman is a lady,

The lady is you.

 

Tears

Tears of invisible rain

On ice-face sheets of cheek

Of glistening eyes and a worried look

And now is real and fake.

"Now" is the "Grab the moment"

And the abdicated made this choice,

To live as one, and on your own,

In seas of passionless drowning child lemmings,

Psychotic subtlety and cerebral passions.

Drown me in invisible tears

From neither of your eyes,

And thighs are soft to touch

And drown me girl in love.

In the invisible hour of the silent night,

We closed our eyes and held on tight.

Shadow Swan.

Spectrum of some deeply perverse waxy oils

On black many fringed flight feathers

On the seemingly perfectly formed wing.

Catches the gaze and the drop of sunlight,

Sits longer than the river's waters.

Serenely selfish in royal abundant confidence,

While cruising the shallows in dappled reflection

Of a lust driven moment of passionate serenity.

Coldly, coolly following a higher instinct,

Leads the observer to detect no regrets,

No moments of doubt in supreme black confidence,

And the thought that the crucial moment has gone.

Parallel your life with that of the swan,

Among discarded debris, detritus of the dereliction,

Remain aloof to preserve the damned integrity.

And so utterly perfectly casual and remote

So beautifully carved from living velvet,

And so much that you thought was lost.

That'll do for now, so here's some more "village cricket":

Stay safe out there people.