Saturday – night

So, home and the rest of the afternoon

i don’t remember. The sun had shone

in the rain on the walk home and later,

rain. The clouds at sun-down made way

for stars and i thought of a house we found

in the wilds, miles from the mess down

to my trembling hand.

in complete

there’s a golden globe that bounces in Gisborne

laps up  surf

 

 

langours in sand

trees shift their branches

wafting in greeting

not to be missed

 

 

paint pallets no justice

define not the still

of a sunset epiphany

risking its will

we bow in deep envy

praise mighty relief

pleasure intensifies

natures mischief

 

no camera can capture

the rays spiking through

a deluge of colour

soaking me through

intriguing

 

 

immeasurable beauty imbued

yearning for dimensions’ shift

 

‘m

 

If time measured love

instead of hours

hearts would not cease

Sun would not set  embraces

 

 

 

Moon would light belief

 

 

the clock could not tick

its seconds

Childs play nor cease

or chase old couples smiling presence

young lovers deep intense

 

the garden grows unfettered

by chiming of knell

each tree and mountain growing

the ocean tide and swell

 

second instances of feeling

milliseconds of sublime

creation fettered not by motion

sand is shifting seeds will climb

peoples melting into moments

hearts sinking in the sun

stars gaze to blaze the darkness

Creator sighs an all is done

 

 

Sunday Blues

I can see

into

your eyes of blue

Like a drifting sea

surrounded by clouds

I look deep

inside

My big blue eyes

gaze longingly

within you

trying to gauge you

Are you real enough

for me?

Are you tough enough?

Are you rough enough?

Do you truly

get me?

I’m a wild child

drifting on

a Sunday cloud

Not ever contemplating

landing

Can you feel

into my heart?

My childish

spontaneous

open vessel

Hop on

for the ride

Who knows

what you will find

inside

Can you see

into my eyes

of blue?

Because

I can see

into yours…

Watercolour

You inspire the flower

to loose distended crown.

Is that you, my orphan,

dressed in the aperture

of my dread?

 

I must illustrate

the angle of your head,

unbent; the limber

leg, compliant; engage

myself – our hues

 

indivisible; and in

some better way,

enunciate

the tenor of dew.

 

*note that “loose” is not a typo.

A Reading

I couldn’t do it,

Not at that pub.

All those clever bastards

Spilling wine

(into their throats).

Fancy standing up

To read –

I’ve seen the pictures:

All black jeans

And pained looks,

Unruly hair and rolling eyes.

And there’s me

Drinking days done

Gasping for ale,

Anything –

It’s too late now

The stars are up.

And anyway

I have nothing to say.

Not here.

Later, perhaps

When we’ve had a drink

clut

‘shame to stop

2 steps short

of hell’s exit

( – Alighieri, Dante);

 

hard to turn;

go on; to lie, hear

the pulse between

my ears..burn;

 

apt (is it), bad

luck or.. – what a shit

of a trip i could

drop but for

 

(i confess) my

irrational belief

in..discipline which

is i admit –

 

Still i

scrawl in the garage

(tools, disused, &

who-knows-what, you

can be sure does not,

magical, come-to when you

leave the room);

 

slouch on my best shit-

brown couch, down

night & day.

 

But I’m not as scared

as I once was – of

dogs, bees, the flowers

that conceal them;

and water  (because

when you step on it you go down

and all that is good – faith in man,

football, politics… is

snuffed.

 

When I nearly drowned I thought

of nothing. In the loft however

years later when a live wire

shook my hand and wouldn’t let go,

I thought something more –

like sorrow, but then the fuse snapped

and after that I went to bed and had

the dreams of a child again); strangers,

the otherness-

of..

 

*

 

Distillation of the Self – Note: remember this:

 

my last poem should be like

liquid drops squeezed from the pulp;

 

lean, light like high white

birds in the cold-blue sky

of morning.

 

This is something to aspire to (like – ).

Isn’t it. So pure it

may/be imageless; mere

cuts from the black abstracts

that flap in the dark dark night (like – );

 

maybe soundless too,

extrasensory. might

call it 0 or even less

because nothing will be

except ..;  the bare -..

 

If I could isolate it ex-

tract abstract it from…

I could..

it would be like..

I might split as

the flesh does from the soul,

free at..

 

*

 

Last, i request to be

burnt, buried; dug

up, hung. As willow

light like black silk

, limp on the thorn; i

 

rise like burnt

flakes in the high

wind and live

lightly, never care

 

. which is good, not

morbid, but up

– like burnt

flakes in the wind, which

aspire to..

 

After Christmas I clean the garage up –

in the new year.

 

*

 

Could I dispense with rhythm as well?

Verse? Forget myself

 

*

 

in the garden, snap

the twigs,

for instance, tending the vines;

 

but all that’s left is

but sap as, composed,

I recollect. Some sticks, is

unsaid & that’s fine

no-one ever knows

what goes

on because

if you saw my dreams

you’d have me guillotined

like bob dylan,

but even he would be spared –

here, in America  –

now, yet..

 

We’re self-assured like we were

in ’76 which was

(we knew not) the end.

 

Some were astute enough to smell the decadence

and kicked the door in.

 

*

 

It’s happening again. Come

friendly bombs:

 

do the old boot boys in –

in Surbiton, Hamilton

– tending the flowers

in the garden. The grapes

shall be late this year.

 

No, hit those guys, who got drunk

& caused trouble down this street –

students; now in summer suits:

bloody lawyers & accountants –

get them!

 

Come,

Islamist,

Big Business.

Trumpist, blow yr big… horn,

come                                                     (Freedom/no Taxes/ no Government

(: Yawn))

over us.

 

*

 

I have 24 years left to live.

Woof-Woof.

 

Dec ’16

A Road Trip

Well, she said, it’s been a while.

As it had; 40 years or more.

She was young and wanted a lift.

Oh, you must remember –

The road to Canberra

Autumn frost’s silver sheet and blackened trees

Peripheral place names and Kris Kristofferson’s

Sunday Morning Coming Down;

And us, going up and coming down;

Thoughtless oblivion at the helm of a Holden.

Driving to somewhere and nowhere,

Drinking and singing to the road’s end.

And you looked at me as though I didn’t exist;

Not in any real sense, beyond this and that.

You look at me now through tired eyes

As though we shared an epiphany –

All we shared, I recall, was a look

And it, really, didn’t add up to much

first poem

1

As we’re on the road still,

dragging our heels, up–

hill,  and for all our toil

in the hot wind, and for all

the smart and discipline,

I’ll say this.

 

2

There’s something to be said

for a soft luxurious

bed in the first

spring of morning: the flies

affirm it, and violets, and birds

and the worm spilled.

 

3

I saw the black crows

circling the dawn even before

the sun tipped the leaves

of evergreens golden.

Storms of Nature

Rain and wind

create storms

Blow umbrellas

inside out

We survive

the norms

holding onto

our hats

our skirts

blowing upwards

We are stronger

for the challenges

of nature

that hurl us

unflayingly

into

Life

naked and undetermined….

 

heart rain

heart rain

i hear a heart
in the rain
whose heart
is it?
raining in
the night
the drip of
its beat the
beat of its
drops
i
next
to you
in the sound
of this rain
whose heart
is it?
yours
or mine?
the drops of its
beat falling through
our dreams the
dream of its fall
in a welter
of drips

whose love
is this
raining in
the night?
can it be
taken in
one hand
alone?
your hand
or mine?
what is given
only to both
the join of
its rain
the heart
of its
join

november 2016

Lines – 8

These are the patterns of madmen, in part random but

deliberate also, cuts delivered in cold blood.

 

I merely trace the lines already there

in the mind; run my nail across your palm,

catch the eye the way you like it.

 

 

Oh,

 

Lorelai                                   could I

 

be the one to find the gap, scratch those lines

across your back?

 

 

a natural death

 

This is no way to go, slow like food expiring;

tho it’s true, lesser men than you have managed it.

 

 

one man behind another

 

These are not the hands I knew

as a child/like skein unwound,

pale skin

 

alligator. Score those nails

across my wide pale-

skin thighs,

 

divide; I’m yours. My

Lord, I’m so…

excessively

 

bored. Part the seas,

intervene.

Like you used to.

 

5

 

When I close mine eyes I’m like

him upon the white

factitious cliff;

 

and not because I miss England,

her hills, green

fields etc; or

 

the southern shores

of Europa and there-

fore! sail the wide

 

desolate sky

of Antarctica,

no.

 

6

But I half expect each turn

to be, at last,

 

what it might be – the end

I set out for.

 

It might not come or has come and I don’t know and don’t care in the shadow down-town, death

etc.

 

7

The town is dormant, underworld of stilled houses and street lights, lined dead

straight (except when the road bends them out of shape), on a Monday night.

 

But what can I do, one man, out late?

 

8

Should I say I have sailed the wide desolate skies, the high

latitudes, of Antarctica?

 

if I’m not being literal.

 

And if not, what do I mean by it?

And if so, what do I mean by it?

 

I should have been a pair of ragged shoes

scouring the city floors; a fly

suckling the hard bread – enough,

I guess, to live by – and wine; a fly

 

-bitten mendicant dragging his bones

along the interminable roads of the middle-ages.

 

I’m just lucky I guess.

 

nov-dec ’16