Bedhead

There is a warmth, a certain serenity
As if the star sign of Saturn alone should bring such peace
A carrier, a vessel to fill with echoes, a universe to populate
Dreamed up memories that oscillate among eons of beautiful visions

Soon to try to recollect these instants
Yet never again to truly trespass on those clouds
Not to instill that voice of endearment
Fearful of making the call, under the ominous threat of rejection

Instead to read the chapter on depression
Settle on a preference for melancholy
Hang her scented lightness of cloth on every resonant passage
Celebrate the star sign

That brought thought transference and ultimate joy
Wake up and smell the coffee

Shower, eat, drive, meet, return
To sit where the ether can carry the birdsong
Where effervescent passages, of time past, time present
Wander undisturbed, gentleness thus to be personified





a poem from the collection Into the Present Decade - Love with Droplets of Joy available by clicking on the link

Absentee

Dare to break the spell
Purge the myths where the words wallow
So frequently
So easily
So secretly

Set up the clandestine meeting
In a matter of fact sort of way
No more to it than that
No false expectations
No hidden agendas
No place for truth or beauty

A map of California on the table top
Was this his destination?
That shadow of a man
How imperceptible our shadows
Dare to break the spell
Dare to purge the myths
Dare for insincere reconciliation




a poem from the collection Into the Present Decade - Love with Droplets of Joy available by clicking on the link

Mound

Eight minutes the difference
Maybe climb the hayrack
Sit in contemplation
Have a well brewed pot of tea

Thousands of times upon the waking
In or out of halfway dreams
Where could the bare breast have came from
Heaven is to only know

Extrapolations; spent-fuel, misfired imaginations
Overheard presentations, tree top lined incantations
A single star, in a sky at once so far away
Before a slow red sunrise, at the turn of the weary day

Plagued by indecision, fearful of derision
Indebted to the men of youthful circumcision
All across the frost filled grounds
All the way to fanciful minds
Thoughts plaid full, to the very brim, of silken mound





a poem from the collection Into the Present Decade - Love with Droplets of Joy available by clicking on the link

Rough

I have killed

As a fifteen year old youth I worked in the local slaughter house, earning pocket money for the summer holidays, picking up enough cash for Friday nights at the YMCA; the discotheque where I splashed on Brut aux de cologne (before it became a mass consumer commodity)

I poured scent to cover up the stench of blood and sweat and fear; the fear of the cornered sheep who knew from the ambient noise, and the putrid smell, that their time would very soon be up

My time also done; the highly flighty young girls entirely unimpressed with my disk jockey selections (Pink Floyd, Frank Zappa and the like), they breezed off to more more soulful & romantic liaisons; who knows, even to find a little bit of rough

Not that the rough boys ever worked the slaughterhouse; no, mostly the rough boys were cowards and bullies, synthetic tough guys, with no real fibre, or backbone, or steel

The sort of boys who worked best in gangs, or who took their strength from their weapons of choice, the sort of young men who might have tried it on with me, until they heard that already I was a killer

I had killed before

It was a long time ago, I only mention it now, as we collectively undress, more as a point of disclosure, to let you know of what I was once capable.

It took a while to learn to stand up to bullies; perhaps less time to move on to the more expensive aromatics

I hope that gives you some certainty, perhaps increases your expectations, of my future intentions




a poem from the collection Into the Present Decade - Love with Droplets of Joy available by clicking on the link

Reclamation Yard

I could believe, if I wanted to, that with all those gulls in the silver, white and grey sky, the sea could easily be over the horizon

You might share this thought-stream, from the evidence of your personal vista; pray tell of your own unique over the top dreams, themes, dramas, and convictions

There are times when I could be embarrassed; there are occasions when I need to find a place to hide

Not out here though, not beneath the bare trees that rest beside the canal, along the snow covered path that might easily never end

You might walk with me for a while, have fun seeing your own breath, inhale the smoke from the silage-stacked fires, and peer gratefully down the endless corridors of limes

Remember those times when you may be embarrassed, occasions when you need to find a place to hide




a poem from the collection Into the Present Decade - Love with Droplets of Joy available by clicking on the link