Waver

I could talk of the beauty of the morning

Of how the trees & hedgerows rejoice

Thanks to the refreshment of overnight rain

I could talk of the nights dream:

Suspicions, surveillance, shop windows, sex

Secret steep passages, string linked doorways

Darkness, death & the unwavering love

Of ones own mother

Here a time for contrast

New life, old uncertainties

Draw down your own conclusions

This is a poem from Filmic: Love of Our World of Purples & Blues

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book, and audio cd from  poetryshop 

Scape

To see not one person in the idyllic vista
To long for a certain someone in your arms
Ache at the sight of such immersible beauty
Nights indulgence of angels & spirits charms

I walked down True Lovers Walk
To the river, to the swans
I wandered, as if I was Hyperion
Let them talk, let them bloody well talk

This is a poem from Filmic: Love of Our World of Purples & Blues

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book, and audio cd from  poetryshop 

Sea Facing

Line of sight; cliff-top to cliff-top

Fog settled over sea and land

Echoes of a more confident time

Once majestic four storey terraces

Face proudly towards the shoreline

Their grimy cracked windows amplify

The corrosion of their iron balconies

Their dust covered doors welcome

Only the most unwelcome of guests

Time to turn, and about turn; no

This is not the joyous image

Conjured from strong accents

Reflected in sepia tone sunsets

This is not the leisurely bolt-hole

Where a days work might be rested

Where a nights dreams might begin

The search continues; inland I fear

To be away from the anticipated gear

That one assumes to surround decay

The dismay that is of a lost confidence

A lost purpose on the nations stage

Better the better people be found

I am not the man for it; too big a task

Needs immense imagination, boundless

Energy; for days, and nights, and weeks

Many months and years of rebuilding

Or children and parents & three more

Generations; all washing, washing

Their hands of the struggle, washing

The struggle right out into the sea

This is a poem from Filmic: Love of Our World of Purples & Blues

Available as ebook from Kindle
or as a homemade print book, and audio cd from  poetryshop 

Thread

The small details: fence post tops, frills on skirts, smiles in place of frowns. Each day, as though we might know that voice, the flowers grow, the grasses bend, the breeze blows over the meadow. The search engine searches, I sit back and sigh, if only life was catalogued more clearly then the file would already be found.

More routes to the ancient and modern: songstress, poet, meditations muse and mistress, her timbres rattle with the dust of gold. One strum of lute, one clap of hand on taut steel wired gut, one tap of foot on the reflex peddle of a soft bass drum, one whisper that wails to it's soulful crescendo. That moment swept over, to be lived no more, not by me, not by you, not even by your lover nor by any other once vainglorious scoundrel.

Thus the rivers flow, paced by the seasons; in spate, in drought, ever onwards, ever falling towards the moon-filled oceans. All of this to keep the loins anxieties at a distance, all of this to quell the rising flames of those once fierce and lustful emotions, all of this to close off, to close down the silent witness.

The small details; a man-made rill, silk embroidered pyjamas, transference where once there was doubt.

This is a poem from Filmic: Love of Our World of Purples & Blues

Available as ebook from Kindle or as a homemade print book, and audio cd from  poetryshop 

Overdone

All the chic of the city

In a moorland village

Chocolate and beige

Monsoon purple stripes

In the style of Rothko 

Yet antlers above the fire

Mostly they are young

The staff that is, as befits

This swipe at modernism

But neither youth nor

This extravagant whim

Are in truth sustainable

The numbers don't add up

I sit alone in a tabled room

Set out for forty-four covers

It might be different

Come Saturday night

But the farmers hereabouts 

Know that one swallow

Does not a summer make

More's then the pity

This is a poem from Filmic: Love of Our World of Purples & Blues

Available as ebook from Kindle or as a homemade print book, and audio cd from  poetryshop