A Flickering

Shadows dance, made

By sunlight, through net

Curtains, at the window

Birds talk of chance

I surmise a certain circumstance

Where all beneath the dress

Was unveiled, & we set sail

As the light faded

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

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

In Awe of Neruda

I write to no one now that I have lost her
Yet still I write
Of the ocean’s moonlight reflections
Of my own dances with the shadows

I am as no one without my writing
So I go to illusory pasts
With mountains & meadows
& I cast myself

To the vague details of the mind
There to find nothing
That might give the consolation
Of her skins sensitive sensations

With no one & being no one
You might expect a desperate tone
Yet alone, as you now find me
Is a new found treasure

The pleasure of meditation
That well chosen gifts evoked
Fresh thoughts provoked
Of those hours we talked

Before the melancholy set in
The follies of that life;
Where we meet, where we part
Were we start, and where

Where do we finish

I write to no one now that I have lost her
Yet still I write
Of sunlight in the marketplace
Of hot coffee in the Paris pavement café

I am as someone with my writing
I roam around the sculpture parks
Visit historic European gardens
& I fast, fast upon myself

From the incidental revisions
There to rediscover precision
Among the gifts of creation
A purpose, with an inclination

With one and being someone
You might expect an elated tone
Yet alone, as you now find me
Makes me variable as the weather

To untether the indignation
My present pretence revoked
Old ideologies rattled & stoked
Scented flowers smoked

Before the reverie begins
The very stuff of strife
Where we laugh, where we cry
Where we hope and where

Where did she die

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

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

Less Strong

She stays more dreamy than in sleep; to face up to her fragility with dignity

He touched her eyelid so soft; panicked at the thought to end in a penniless croft

Rambles of a ramblers themes; he often caught her drift, yet also missed his chance

Fate undone by circumstance; there in the queue, where she knew of but the few

She reads in joyful voice; of her new-found, long-lost friend; it is why we depend

To send the desires of her spirit, she impresses her lover’s letter, with the stamp of wax

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

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

Over There, Believe Me

Shadows; words lurking in the in-between spaces, demonstrations of my counter complexity

Maintaining a conversation, however ill advised, brings with it the difficulty of understanding my inner self. Brings with it the need to clarify, at least in words, my present physical and mental states, however troubled they are to get to the  surface

There is a nearby indiscriminate pain, slight but present, a pain of what I take to be of absence; near and in my shoulders, near and in my gut, near and throughout the whole of my body, near and in and among the veiled shrouds of my absently defiant yet mostly mistaken mind

These are the bubbles of joy and guilt that bounce along my arterial veins, just as the surf turns to the oceans with the expectancy of incredible life, just as the clouds turn from the sky to leave the transparent blue, just as those Saturday mornings opened with the opening of a white cotton blouse

I read your seventeen words, twenty-one thousand times, without any hint of desperation

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

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

I could say her conversation was inane

Early start

Yet much later than the sunrise

Looking at a picture

Of a bridge over a canal

It could be that Turner stayed here

Though on reflection I don't think so

I believe he was painting in Chichester

This is Chelmsford, with a cheerful oriental waitress

I could say her conversation was inane; but

What good would that do for anyone, least of all me

If I had more than my ambition

The jazz singer sings

Yet without any ambition

Isn't my day going to drag

Although the breakfast is good

& I might have the same tomorrow

There then, that's a thing to aim for

To smile, be jovial (on the surface)

Irrespective of the slow tides that ebb within

This is a poem from Vagaries:

Love of The Key to Room 149

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