Evening Bell

imagesXW3WRAX1

The ancient bell
of the temple summons
lost spirits to prayers;
murk figures roam alone
unacquainted on snow covered
mountains where peaks punctuate
streaming cauldron clouds, drawing birds
that circle the meditative winds.
Chimes from the west
bring the mist in to wander
with the wind from the east –
dusk strikes the temple bell
for worship; the tranquil mist then rolls away
and vanishes to re-join the hawks circling
the snowy peaks in peaceful
glide.

Luck

pearl moon

O wise, pearl moon,
guardian of my secrets
or lucky charm?
I carry you with me
pinned to the night’s
mink cloth; its warm wrap
consoles even me,
but I shun its generosity
and compassion – I deserve none.
Let me wallow here in darkness
and wait ’til sunlight for
the chance of forgiveness.
But when the candle idles
and daylight overcomes
dusk, my luck will run out,
so maybe I will keep walking
and blend with the budding pathways
to spring and wait for your return tonight.

Promised Reward for Fools

Untitled.png

The souls of all those aching fools
are mulched with the broken bonds of glory
and cacophony of undeliverable
goods: swept up wings
of beautiful angels or sultry virgins waiting
in paradise for suicides blown to kingdom come –
the only kingdom deep in the depths of righteousness
under ashen beads of sweat.
They cry beneath their toil when all have left
them forgotten in dank, gritted dirt,
Graves rollover like fond heather
when purple prayers are laid to rest
along with all signs of peace.
Time and again they pour themselves
into the ground hoping rotten weeds
will allow them breathing room
‘til their passage, but slithering tongues
try to lick them clean while both crawl
on bellies over and through
withered twig fingers still wedded
to propaganda’s grenades and its rusted
rings. Lifeless, hollow, frigid eyes
desperately seek out the light
among a scurry of morbid shadows.
Cold pitiful screams muffled by cold clay
means in the end, there is no glory
or kingdom, vineyards and exquisite drinks
dripped by virgins in a life ever after – all bets
are off.

 

 

Missy

Miss.png

Her skin is fair, lightly freckled and starkly
contrasts her ambiguous demeanour.
I always tip my cap, ‘Good day, Miss,’
but she never casts a glance.
I carry on my way, meandering
deep in wild thoughts that are always
honeysuckle, blue grass, rosehips
and my Miss.
The sun beats down on she and us,
but when my Miss smiles, the heavens open
and it pours, dare I say, it rains tears.
My thinking is, it can not compete
with the lovely lady who does not care
if I live or die, because I know us to be just
a part of my wildest dreams –
the place I go to swiftly as I pass
the dingy, rusted via duct
on my way to work –
I pass that way often, my dreams,
so as not to be seduced by the muggy
waters of brown stench lying along my trail.
Deep down, I think it may just take time.
Today, anyway, I saw a glimmer,
a near warming at the corners of her mouth,
but it could have been the damp, or
maybe, just maybe, as she meanders
to her dress shop,
bypassing her own thoughts and dreams, she is
smiling as she thinks of me.
Maybe.
But, ah, I hear the whistle. Time for work.
Until tomorrow then, Miss.

Corridor

gross_pusteblume.jpg

I say goodbye
holding your hand
searching for raw comfort
from clay cold skin and defeated flesh
that will no longer form words
and draw me close.
You hold a smile
and it squeezes my heart
softly with a palpable
sense of who I am and who you were.
I think you have found a dream
inside of death and see a vision
higher than we, rich in vitality
for a journey or a destiny,
and maybe,
we don’t ever say goodbye.

To A Flame

moth and hand

Like a moth’s scattering
of night, awakening lights
with wings wildly scratching
the air with fluttering shouts,
you frantically try to capture shadows
while zig zagging the art of confusion.
Steered by signals, light waves
like battering rams of celestial
navigation, singe your soul.

A Quadrille is a 44 word poem.

Colour my World

82c3e20d39b7c7262104711f8f25057a

Draw the Junoesque shapes of me,
colour my world fantastically,
shade with depth and imagination,
sketch my past
into oblivion –
paint me with your words.

Blush my cheeks, awash with hope,
use knife edge, brutal and excited strokes,
draw me in with a mad, brush crush,
red ochre
flamed onto canvas –
don’t paint me with your smoke.