Stuttering Staccato

She wrote me a letter

Talked of garlands and May

Walk with me through the meadow

Tread with me softly, she did say

I replied in stuttering staccato

Struck a strangers chord, with echo and delay

Your kindness, gentle, finds and swamps me

I’m sinking fast, I did say

She wrote such words that turned me

Talked of where, and when we’d play

Talked with me so full of passion

She’d twist the vine with me, she did say

I replied by post, almost rolled over

Searching deep for every word

Your passion fever, finds and haunts me

My writing is past, you’ll find I did say

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A quiet conversation

A quiet conversation

A silent contemplation

Wind-chimes, slow days

Passages in time

Wind, blowing sweet softly

Sage, rosemary and thyme

A quiet conversation

Morning light morning

A silent contemplation

Morning light morning

Holding hands

On Giants Causeway

Footprints wander this way

In the sand

A quiet conversation

A silent contemplation

A quiet conversation

Morning light morning

Trickling stream

Over bouldered rock

Poppy, fetlock

Gaze over the meadow

A silent contemplation

Morning light morning

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Carpets of thorns and lilies

Other Men’s words

The kerbstones that I’ve misplaced

Searching their words, for rhyme or reason

Staining seasons passed, it’s now clearer space

Gravestones and epitaphs

Inscriptions defy descriptions, of the words I’m after

Gathering spontaneity, picking grave to grave

A kaleidoscopic conversation, a generation saved

The lilacs and the bluebells, cards from Mrs May

Carpets of bluebells, thorns and lilies; far away days

Of all the deaths you’ve told and listened

All the bouquets you’ve pondered and passed

You’ve read other men’s words

Passed their pasts, into some unknown future place

Searched their faces for rhyme or reason

Staining seasons passed, a new ‘to begin’ space

Footnote

The first poem in trying to break away from the poetry of the past, that morning I’d written a few words of closure (however temporary) on a past relationship, I’d read a little of Adrian Henry, and halfway through typing up the poem Mr Van Morrison came along, singing of Madame George. The following 24 poems are from a vacation in Kos immediately after this idea to change.

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Another sort of touching

I was trying to remember

What it was like to fall in love

I was lying here looking

Ogling at that turquoise top

Staring at that flash of flesh, Gilgamesh

Was I confusing

Was I abusing

Abusing lust, lust with love

And then I remembered

Remembered that Sunday morning 

Flight lands and arrives, landing with nowhere to go

I was just in place, some place, anyplace

Wandering, in love, in love with a big grin

OK so we’d made love some time earlier

And that was some, that was some intoxication

Still, even with intoxication

This was some other sort of touching

Another sort of touching

Touching that caught

Caught, captured in rapture

On a rapturous Sunday morning

The purple haze had descended

My mended mind remembered

Every touch, every stroke

Every word we spoke

Spoke throughout the night

Spoke way on into the morning

Way on into the morning

And when we rose for the sunrise

To skip along the sands

In nothing more than our bare feet

Nothing more than our love

Our kissing

Kissing, kissing, sweet kissing sunrise

Sunrise that burnt off the hazy night descended

My mended mind remembered

Sitting by the ebb tide

Feeling for toes, toes toasting in the sunlight

Feeling another sort of touching

Another sort of touching

Was I touching

Was I touching love

Or is my memory fed

Bled 

Bled dry

Dry with lust

Not Love

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A funny sort of Therapy

A funny sort of therapy

Remember; rubbing pebbles from the beach

This time

It is all in the mind

A different kind of therapy

A full blame culture

Tearing like a vulture

Unloading every which way

Unloading each and every day

Unloading with no reprise, in full sway

Unloading without relent

Unloading cares away

A funny sort of therapy

Remember; we weren’t allowed to be alone

This time

Not trying to be kind

A different mind for therapy

Another game culture

Tear apart the vulture

Scolding, no pain withholding

Scolding, each day unfolding

Scolding, with no restraint for full to slay

Scolding without relent

Scolding cares away

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