Last Apple

The fruit has fallen now .

It is rainbow slashes of pale and bright

in the green of the land.

The apple is old, wild and gangly;

slender fingers dressed in winter’s lichen.

This is a place of life and renewal,

where the fallen fruit is hunted by bugs

for winter sweetness, where

fruit rots to feed the earth, and

lonely specimens wither close to the sky.

Horizons of Beautiful Delusion

I did not know it then, that I
would stop the drinking, meet a
brown eyed European,
make a child, stay within
reasonable proximity; none of that

seemed likely as I lay on my
back in the low springy bushes
planted
along the intersection crossing 
points of Fitzgerald Avenue. It was a

few hours after I’d started
on finishing the left over drinks. These
had withdrawn quicker than I’d
realised and the room was loudened

by the scratching knock and
groaning sounds of poems beached
on the dry sand and reefs
of uncomfortable low tide.

And The bottle store
across the road wasn’t open yet. I
had an admiration
for the collective of the shrubs,
the contoured unity

of the surface, a green
soft moss colour, they supported my
weight like an old spring mattress. 
A man, who then was my age now,

stopped to ask on my condition. 
The shrubs held me like jelly,
I could start a wriggle and
would continue jiggling.

The blue hot morning sky
screwed down around me.
A woman wheeled onto the
footpath the Open sign.

The boats had their sailor
float them off the rocks
and float them out, beyond
the truth, on tides of malted falsities.

 

 

 

 

ZERO HOLD

You don’t 

know hesitancy:

the speckles,

for a moment, stop

an endless blinking

canopy.

Eight legs always

find me

 

A planet in the clearing,

a sun switched off

and blanket holes.

A near good memory

for most

 

Who really do not

know.

 

 

© A2Kdavis (K Davis) 2016

Ghost Story

…out of it

last night

cold on the deck

rocking the chair

to forget.

 

I saw

stars and thought,

how small

they are

against the sky,

 

and me so large.

I sank back and

blue rivulets

of smoke found

the gaps in my hand.

 

Today, I’m

nowhere, a Shade

pacing the floor,

nailing my fist

to the wall

 

of my hand,

thinking, you:

always you

see thru me,

you do; and

 

lightly pass.

The Nurse’s Hand

How gentle the nurse’s hand,

at the back and under the knee;

how gentle the nurse’s words

as they press in on panic.

They put the flowers just so,

pat the sheets so the chin is at rest,

take the weight and touch the brow.

They know the patients know

that death is at the door;

that it may enter at any time

to steal breath, a heartbeat;

that its presence, today, is not wanted;

tomorrow, it may be welcome.

Come, Death, someone is waiting

to cross The Divide.

Careful as you go with a friend so dear

360º

I look down at my feet sometimes
stretched out on the couch my ten
knobs, the high arch, the
ocean
behind or the curtains, or the
wall with recent paintings
and the works Mingus gives me
to show his love and
devotion

and as I look out along my
legs and see a giant
relative to the pin-point
of consciousness perceptively
responsible for this—
ant, bee, one one
millimetre tall human
shaped existence

what in me shrinks
to that?, I am of a being
of
incomprehensible
magnitude and phenomenal
power

to influence the
heads on the flowers, effect
the noisy neighbour, the rock
in my hand, the fly
of my ointment,
the hard nut ‘I Am’

among the later
platitudes, gigantic multi-cellular
forms
when soil is revealed
microscopically
in a fertile field, or beside the
runway aviation fuel
shimmer, nothing is hidden,
things are made secret
by not disclosing methods: sit in the sun,

with your clothes on
or off, and your arms
open, or crossed,
becoming the orb: Sol Om On—
ra dot com
am poor role model drunk
and on the pipe
man below his feet and spreading out.