Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘short pieces’

CONVERSATIONS 15

REWRITE
Convincing ghosts rewrite our certain pasts,
or bitter to the last, at least try to inject their dying voices,
inject their reasons, their stories.
We all, full of hunger, scurry for validation,
deny our small wickednesses, rewrite, remember.

SHADED
In that
Green shade
We are made
And unmade.
Click of insect moments.


COUPLET
The demons of eloquence
are not always right,
but their arguments
should always ruffle and delight!


HARMONIC
What each we are,
A note plucked once and dying.
Attack, sustain, release, delay.
That harmonic wave is what we are,
How we intrude,
How we linger.


SMALL
Over that hill it is always dawn, always midnight.
The smell of dew on hay,
The rising insects floating silent.
All this is uniquely ours –
This dawn, this sunset,
A moment fashioned and nested.
An egg of memory, in this small circle.


SUNLIT
The pillars of the sky:
Skylark’s song.
Morning stillness.


NOT QUITE
In you…
Nothing moves
That is not world’s spin,
Past’s voice.
A wind’s will,
A wisp,
Not quite a nothing
Not quite a quite…


EDGE
One star remaining
White edge of the summer night
Rimmed, restless, drawn out.


BINARY
Alert
Or asleep, on
or off,
The eye
Of the I,
Blink, unblink,
Blink.

—-
VALEDICTION
The vale of now.
We move in and out of it
Hardly touching,
So caught up we are:
The sounds of our own echoing,
Fading footprints.
Mouthing alphabets
And times-tables.
Numerate, literate,
Dust dressed in story,
Veiled whisp, regardless.

IMG_0955.JPG

IMG_0969.JPG

Read Full Post »

DEAD EYED LIES

The politician shudder.
That particular discomfort in seeing a
bullshit take form,
that glorious automaton mismatch
between word and intent,
blank rabbit stare of
parroting the speechwriter’s doubletalk,
dead eyed professional lying.
Condescending chumminess.
Pickpockets and cudgels…


WONDERFUL

A wonderful madness.
Such a shriek as eloquent
Will once start a galactic spin,
Such spirit the spit of creation is.
A crackle of applause
From other gods and dwellers
In uncircumscribed bedlams
Who watch and savour,
Then try their shaking,
Laughing hands,
Their own worlds
To breathe into….

DISSIPATE

The world,
the long world congealed in the long years,
the filling up, the emptinesses,
the deserts, the wild winds of emotion,
the weathering, the withering.
All of us, if not before,
if not before,
will melt once again into the world,
Sun burnt,
moon cooled,
star hollowed.
A vapour, a word,
A wish fulfilled.

—–

TONGUE

It will be a gibbering,
an extinct language,
a map of lost continents
and drunken drowned pyramids.
It will be an hullucination of grey spaces,
the ramblings of a senile archbishop,
the over-elaborate orchestrations
of a genius fop.
It will be a universe distracted
by its own impossibility,
forced to invent a language
to replicate some linear order.
It will be a flash of poetry
flickered across a white noise screen.
It will be a ball
bouncing down an empty street.
It will be a simple rice bowl
explaining everything.
It will be radiant dust,
dancing.

ARTS

To extract from and limit chaos,
to select gestures, sounds,
to learn how the gods
prevent themselves from becoming demons,
to mimic daffodils and cloud,
to learn the controls of the mothership,
to pretend time and space
is not the problem….

—-

—–

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: