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New Poetry

 

 

Interesting Times.

 

Leaves of meaning in a changing wind

whirl and chase the vortices of form.

No food for thought or any other mind

that reaches from the worlds’ edge.

 

What words can count or numbers speak

in this storm of complexity?

But new stories bud.  Twigs reaching

for air and a glance of light.

 

Voices call from branch to branch and

flash bright patterns in the air.

As the world pours into lonely eyes

the message gathers force and moves.

 

If words can tell us what we mean and

what we’ll be then stories will be told.

It’s a limit that we’ll never reach or find.

The mystery moves on.

 

28/ 01/ 04

Light on water.

 

The will of the world weaves out

patterns of madness:  From chaos

to the carolling of epiphany,

uncertain sanity holds itself tight.

 

Some see sense and dance quietly

to the careless laughter of death.

Smiling maybe, not looking, feeling

the fall of their footsteps.  No more.

 

From blinding light darkness follows,

imprinting visions onto closing lids;

nonsense and mystery the fabric of

our stories, stitched with reason.

 

As light on water skates with the wind

so a passing mind can catch the flash.

Hold it briefly, while blood flows, and

intern a thin phantom of thought.

 

05/03/05

 

 

 

The alley.

 

Shadows and a glow of mist.

A wall shifting, flickering,

with a story told in gaslight.

Vapour streaming from a door.

 

Voices rise,

and escape into the night.

Long-laid walls wait for day.

Old stones full of echoes.

 

Rain has washed and forgotten

stains that remain.  Stone grains.

The city is forever, never really there.

Hands shaping it and gone to bone.

 

Gas hissing and burnt away;

the same then as now.

In cold glow.  Wet neon.

Ancient lights still lit.

 

Other lives, not quite seen;

always a corner away.

They are smoke and laughter,

and a smear of soot on the wall.

 

08/ 07/ 04

 

 

 

Now Love.

 

It is the season of grief.  But under the grey

drizzle, and clouded horizon, fear is just 

a lack of light.

The awe rises in me.  Each day.

And I rise, in body and in mind.

To your touch and your presence.

As you give my reasons back to me.

 

When you are gone I am halved,

quartered, reduced to my need.

And the day waits for your voice.

The open pattern of naked trees,

letting light and air pass,

passes my sight.  Cold air breathing.

I stare towards our future.

 

If I can be one half of what we are

my courage, and my shame,

will cover my bared skin.

A double weave of strange armour

that catches no light, stops no love

and is visible only to you.

My lady who walks with me - - - 

 

11/02/05