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Archive for the ‘poetical sketches’ Category

pier sunset.jpg

August Bank Holiday
And the messy wash of summer
Ebbs into this evening’s silty sea,
While the little bulbs strung out
Along the promenade
Ape starlight
And a sleepy sun sets
As figures, faded,
Colourless as ghosts
Walk serene these echoing boards,
Towards a stricken west.
We hold our breath,
Speak softly now,
As night tiptoes in and hides the worst,
Smears all into one soft, sleepy blur,
The lovers, and the lonesome
And the weary, and the cursed.

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cropped-girl-with-green-eyes.jpgIn this, the circle of my time,

I see the world for what it is,

these petty things arrayed,

and how the mind perceives,

through its filter of a fractured brain.

And all it is, is dust upon our fingertips,

Trailed loose upon a plain

Of imperfect understanding.

So blow the dust away

Then, clean fingered come

Closer to my lips, that I might

Whisper it to you;

What the circle of my time

In time reveals.

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flint arrowheadStories from the lithic traces,
Fragment of arrow-head and spear,
Washed out from the quiet places,
Whispering of ancient strife and fear.

Flints shaped by hands like yours and mine,
By clever men who knew their tools,
For whom broad seasons measured time,
Yet then as now were damned by fools.

By fools and lies spread far and wide,
By strutting power-hungry lords,
At whose behest that darkening tide,
Turned all the clever hands to war.

And as each season shed its days,
The heavens harvested the good,
While of these flinty barbs and blades,
All trace was lost, cast down in mud.

__________________

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southport pier sunset letterbox

A languid sun sinks low and seeps
Into the wide horizon’s reach,
Bleeds then into a watery stain,
Now smoothing out the wounded sky,
And soothing all our heads for sleep.

Through blunt anaesthetising rays
I squint, forgetting now the day
And its long, weary labours drawn,
Daring instead to harbour hopes
That from this heavy-limbed fatigue
Tonight, I’ll find respite in dreams.

Meanwhile, I sit entranced and still,
Allow the sun to finger through
The clutter of my memories,
Brush back the sleeves of ancient tunes,
Whose sweetness I had long thought gone,
Though each now shudders back to life,
Beneath the needle’s crackling pass.

Then, slow, into a coppered sea,
The suns departs this fractious day,
And with one final spark, is gone.
The day is done, its length is run
And as I start my little car,
And turn at last my wheels for home
I know, for all the life on earth,
We feel each setting sun alone.

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childhood

He lost the Faery tongue aged five,
Lost it to chalk boards
And vague threats of God.
It was the Gulag then for him,
His life now frozen for want of sun
And green. And where, when
He was not afraid,
Boredom was the name
Of his routine.

Bare-toothed and baying,
Grey wolves circled and chastised
All vestige of the Faery from his eyes,
Their faces hard, but for those times,
And times again, of false grace,
When he observed they bowed
At every mention of His name.
This God, beneficent of the angry
And the cruel, but no friend to the reticent
Or the cowed.

So, he sought solace
In the prettiness of girls a-while,
And pined.
And thinking what he felt divine,
Put all his hopes in Love,
And thereby came to see,
Amongst all flesh, at least,
The fact of his invisibility,
This Faery child,
Alone among the chained
And shuddering freaks,
Trapped in the darkness
Of an all too swiftly run mortality.

Thus one by one they fell.
The reticent, the cowed,
The lovers, and the wolves, and all.
All into the abyss were swept.
While he, invisible to the last,
Unknown and untouched still,
Watched each one fall in turn,
And wept.

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sunsetWintering in the same old cold and grey,
waiting for that chance-thing to arise
and say: here, this is how,
revealed in unambiguous guise,
you might now see and act
and leave behind at last
the lies you tell yourself
in order to maintain
this never ending waiting game!

But there is nothing new today.
No novelties arise, just the same
old cold and grey in which
you wear the usual disguise,
revealing this uncomfortable truth,
that for all your life you’ve hid,
dissolved in indecision.
And of all the things, of your own volition,
you might heartily have risked, and done,
you never risked, or did,
a single one.

 

 

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cropped-img_20170821_213323_429.jpg

There’s a mad March wind,
roaring around the eaves tonight,
testing the latch.
It shoulders the fence,
searching for gaps,
for an inch of spare
to get a grip and then to tear,
to splinter wood, or lift
a tile so brother rain
this gift can win and let the wet
come pouring in.

Meanwhile I sit in snug of night,
A book to hand in this warm, soft light.
But with each flicker of the mains
The wind another victory gains
Through skipped heartbeat and
anxious dread,
Drives home what oft escapes my
head, that for all our wit and
clever laws, the mad March wind
still gives us pause.

 

 

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