Month: November 2015

I suppose when I stop and give thought to those things
that as poets we all write about
Over arching it all and I guess rightly so
Love’s the number one theme without doubt

Interesting the way, we as poets create
shaping art through our thoughts and our dreams .
When I read all those wonderful poets who’ve now gone
They were also inspired by this theme

Inspiration will always use love as a basis
for creative people to use
As a way to explore, to aspire, to achieve
We could ask for no greater a muse.

I’m not bitter about love, in fact I’m a fan
And forever a fan I will be
I’m really I guess, just a weird poetess
who passionately dreams to be free..
~Wanda~

An oblong of pale light

at curtain’s edge, a

shifting frame.

It is a window of hope;

I am darkness in the night;

shuttered and cosseted

with febrile spun mind.

I watch street’s light shift,

oblong’s lines drawn anew –

and I am in that frame,

a release, a gasp of air.

Far away, sounds of the night:

a scooting car, a whimper.

Here there is nothing;

grey lines on a wall; the

pain of eyes wide open

I long for you

in winter, sing

of fall in spring;

 

head south, north;

by north; west

across continents,

 

the oceans of

india, arabian

seas. I was

 

a sailor, Trojan

slain; and from

the remains a Roman

 

soldier in the days

of Etruscan Kings.

Perhaps i

 

next time re-live

this my town

these last 20

 

years; submit

to some two

hundred bars and

 

a museum, turn

that into art,

again, i want

 

out of it, til

then i won’t

rest, haunting

 

the stairs, thinking

always there’s

something here

 

i’ve missed, face

pressed to the pane,

passed the slate

 

roofs, the rain-

laden evergreens.

As the sparrows

 

in the guttering

sing (?) i think of

nothing which is

 

all one to me.

 

11-12 September 2015

She waits patiently,
There are no tears,
In the pale light of dawn,
A low hanging moon,
Gives consent,
To a tentative sun,
Their light mingles.
The silver becomes luminous,
Colour is born,
The air thick,
I can spread it on my bread,
At once warm and cooling,
Carries a tang of sea,
A hint of cool brine,
And she waits patiently,
For a lover?
A child?
An arm full of flowers,
She has more grace than I.

hymn of the soul pearl
to Robbie Louis Stevenson, inspired by his story ‘The Beach of Falesá’

i shall
make for the
islands when
my days are
only afternoons
cloud banks low
on ocean
only there
with a sun’s
fall remaining
to the hour
shall i find
calm faced
on all points
of desire’s compass
with a vastness
of equal measure
to the unknownness
of this self

a little land
in a great sea
enough to gather
sticks dry leaves
of outlived seasons
to burn in
dreaming flame
to bolster light
in the murmuring
darkness of the
shore
sparks lifting
cobra-wise on the
smoke into that
darkness above
resting on darkness
below like a shell
closing on the
soul’s pearl
safe at last
till dawn’s
new opening

three kings plaza
11 december, 2014

Beyond the clawing lace webs of spiders, secrets crouch.

They are on dusty leaning-down shelves, in the shifting light of a far corner.

Who comes here, past the red iron flank?

Secrets come. This is where they reside:

In the twitching summer light, peeking through boards.

Come feel the dirt floor against your skin.

Sit in the corner and weep. Stand in the shadow and howl.

Seek the light, the quiet corner, the dusty chair.

Close your eyes. Listen.

It is the footfall of time, a spider at work, a mouse in his hole.

It is your imagination, the flick of a bird.

It is the laugher of children, the awful sob of love lost

 

 

A path was cast aside for your arrival,

I was preparing our sanctuary amongst the burning flowers,

They flare and smoulder into smoking ashes,

Lost days thoughts are the language of our dreams,

You ignited the weapon in me amongst other delicacies,

I’ll still rise with a roar, rage and omit it all,

The grinning devils underneath the shrubbery,

Knew the score and how I felt exactly,

What they did to you was a set move quite frankly,

Its how they work, calculated and deviously,

Consequences didn’t matter to me,

I could smell the darkness of incense and its insecurities,

I wished for a bell tower and rifle to accompany me,

I went for a walk to dispel my anger then I saw some graffiti,

Under an arch of a railway bridge next to a stream “love has no ending to me”,

A voice loomed from the adjoining trees,

Sent a shiver up my spine reminding myself how dangerous I used to be,

Where ever I see a wild flower amongst the pale green grass it reminds me,

Of the fabric of blue squares of that path made to bring you towards me.

By all that is unholy,
I am the dark mirror,
I am void,
Devourer of worlds,
I am WAR,
I drink the blood of infants,
Drain the world of innocence,
I dwell in the crippled soul of humanity,
I twist,
I turn,
I am greed,
Venal, lustful,
Jealous power,
Raw and old,
As old as humanity,
Hot fury,
Cold hate,
The bad penny,
The poisoner of minds,
I am militant Islam,
Christianity,
Buddhism,
Hinduism,
Ism schism,
I am the schism,
That turns the face of man from God,
Worship me with your blood,
I am WAR,
I am empty,
Void,
I am you,
If you cannot turn from my embrace,
I am unholy,
And you are mine.

And if you that night had swung,

say, from a rope tied to the rafter…

 

What then? Would I have lived

like the dead, long years

piled high in dust… Until,

 

when? Friend,

I’m dying.

O, sterile!

Wind. I saw

 

myself in the mirror,

mile a minute.

Going for it, you. You

ask for it, you do.

Would I live

 

my days in that

first floor flat

in London…Friends

dead, or gone

to some

other hole they call

home. It hurts,

yes it does.

 

25/10/15