Spirited Away

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Picture: One of my arts/crafts pieces that I make and sell for my charity CRUK.   Ghost peacock painted on heavy slate.

Azure lawns cry,
stuck in the past
like dew tears
on dampened stones.
Sometimes
the darkness can be still be seen,
held tightly
between each
raw nerve,
each blade
of black grass
on which
dancers mop up tears,
waltzing the air
with ghost like peacock
fans over their broken faces;
pallid feathers
hover like wisps
of winter taking
one, last, look back.
Its memories
spill over
where those peacocks
once ran wild,
their rainbow fans
since crumbled to dust
to cover all that must
stay hidden while
Azure lawns cry.

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A Tiny Thing

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I’m copying Dorinda Duclos and re posting a Christmas favourite of mine and hijacking the lyrics – influenced by ‘The Little Swallow’ Carol of the Bells composed by Ukrainian composer Mykola Leontovych in 1914-  Re written, and loosely based, this is what I got. дякую (thank you).

Sing little bird,
fly overhead,
rest in the trees’
wavering breeze.

Lift your curtain high at dawn,
let sleep the flickering candle’s yawning.

Tall trees aglow,
clouds full of snow,
laden with light,
black hops on white,
snow flurry sneeze

small feathers freeze.
Fly little bird
lift up and fight,
go little bird

circle the light,
sleep little bird,
soundly tonight.
Try little bird,

lift your wings while you’re still singing
soon the night will warm your dreaming.

Fly little bird
reach for the night,
go little bird,
shy of winter’s light.

Warm your body, melt the snow
for the daylight crisp below.

Go little bird,
sleep little bird,
find the songs you sweetly sing
nestle there ’til winter’s still.

Go little bird,
up to the night,
fly little bird
soundly tonight.

See the moon she’s smiling for you
shivering stars their arms are open too.

So go, little bird,
fly little bird,
high little bird,
hush, little bird.

Soon will come the voices of the morn,
joyous little creature of our dawn.

Go little bird,
fly little bird,
sleep little bird,
twilight is heard.

Go little bird…
go.

Dream Like Dali

Picture source: Salvador Dali 1904 – 1989

Majestically, she came striding to the edge of sun baked
sand like an hourglass held up by time,
until she was still; her long legs equidistant

he lay heel to toe with the savage sun
like a mummy bandaged in alabaster;
humanity encrusted with the parched earth –
it had partially eaten him –

a dried out dove clung on to his chest
since his ribs were a near perch
for the wasted observer;
tired of flying,
tired of singing,
lost in his search for peace,
its feathers had become carved with
fine dried clay – its fissure
like veins devoid of faith – baked
but incomplete,
badly in need of rest

her elongated shadow buried
them both
before she knelt on the earth
for water to pour from dainty,
silver rivulets
that ran her body,
though she was smooth
and flowing sand

he watched her rise,
striking the sky
with her cool, black silhouette
but on the floor it lay
outstretched – as an amber pool
of honey;
he placed in it his hand
to taste her

he was quenched, fed. Arid skin
of dust and clay fell away as did the dove,
which had replaced his heart –
its wings shattered
into a thousand pieces until baby soft powder
dusted the gritty, sparkling floor

a billowing white cloud produced a magnificent
topaz bird; its plumage was a thousand lights
of peaceful nights held in its tail eyes
of beautiful iridescence –
tail eyes that had once glimpsed peace
in a thousand colours: turquoise, ocean green
and gold …

quill feathers wafted the zircon grains
of the sand, writing new rules,
posturing and reshaping –

beautiful but cruel foundations of peacock ore
too brittle to walk on, created swank waves
of peacock blues,

and it strutted till a thousand feathers
fell on the sand
to rise again as blood red ceramic poppies
that poured in an avalanche from the gaping
mouths of soldiers still inside tin helmets –
grown men like babes still fighting
inside their dreams

he tried to pick the wild flowers for her
but barbed, razor wire snagged
his crumbling fingers,
and hidden behind those were children’s faces
pressed against wire mesh
on the shores of green, unpleasant oceans
that gulped and gagged; force fed a rigorous diet
of helplessness and hope
each time sand was flipped inside the hourglass

he gripped her waist
but as his reflection caught on her glass bosom
it shattered her frame

a thousand more grains of sand
flowed like the salt
of his tears – sprinkled gently
from a watering can’s wise rose
trying to feed the presumption of green
leaves between his toes

his flaking sinews were drawn
to his chest; he wore a small hole
where the dove had nestled –
dust stung his eyes
before his tattered hand rose to form a bridge
that the sun rode across
to join him at his journey’s end

red jewel fish swam ahead of her
in shoals of beating hearts –
riders corralled the sand storm’s cloth
approaching like a whirling dervish;
her titian hair draped those black, almond desert eyes,

and their glinting sunlit flecks
consumed time in their frenzy –
she placed the convergence; a plump,
red heart
within his rib cage,

she was a belly dancer for a while
on the sand’s hypnotic gyrations
prompting creatures with a spin of time
to play music
inside of their shells

her lips were kissed by
one thousand butterflies, and her open palms
let loose a chorus of small white doves;
all of the notes to harmonise man’s discord –
all willing one more time to fly away
in a relentless search for peace and to sing
for another one thousand years –

time enough, she thought, before they’d need
a place to rest.

Such A Time

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I found a blog not long ago that always inspires me to do…  something,  even if only in a document.  This is not a patch on his work but I wrote.  Thank you Lance Sheridan.  Please visit his amazing writing.

Does winter’s plague
beckon the drowned
who find solace beneath?

Accustomed to the connecting
seasons floating by, they endure
the frowned face stares
tentatively mirroring their own
above taught ice.

Caught in between coldness,
a new age and only a hint
of the smell of warmth
from heads butting on this hard glass
they hurl and shout –

but nothing will reach the surface
till spring time –
a time eagerly awaiting
the scathing torture in their
rambunctious voice –

and not until, after a crack of ice,
thick and headstrong,
all hell is let loose,

if hell, that is, were suddenly,
to become heaven, and spring is reborn.

 

 

 

Tickets Please!

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Chances should come with stickers –
carrying instructions, like which buttons to press,
which way to turn
and how to survive those innocuous bouts
of life that intercede,

with their damp edges that peel way
and which always leave me stuck,
with nought but a panoply of wetness;

extremities made of stodge and glue,
at the very point where I thought
my life would start, until
I’d always dig a bit more,
only to find I had no real chance at all.

So, I have nothing.
On most days, I lift a dirty nail
to scape that crimped and lifeless
pape mache, only to reveal
the plastic drudge of the rain soaked window,
on this bus going nowhere –

to be fair, this bus takes me places
while I sleep, and feel safe,
and where I can sometimes peep under the skirtings
of life’s bitter edge without having
to peel it away.  Most days.

Ultimately, the traffic of heavy breath
unwittingly peels away the crudities
waiting for me once I get off;
such is the nature of rain soaked passengers
and do gooders all mixing to make my life hell.

Mindless Control

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Looking out
on this piss pouring, cloudy day,

I find it hard to unravel.

My life,
inside this invidious smog,

includes those many ubiquities and other tawdry, awkward bits,
often unkind to my demeanour.
And, as a consequence, they are always sent reeling.

But then, I tend to reel them inland –
from LSD to intense, or
merely simple chats,
until nothing will rival that
unwinding, mind bending
anecdote of inner self and healing whilst reeling.

“If I am not myself,
then how can others
see me?

To me,
it was, and still is
a revelation.”

But looking out today
on this rainy morning,
I still feel nothing inspiring –

so  I drain away this fancy
and torturous pain,
to  at least allow me to see the question

of Who I am,

and how that makes me feel…

Ok,  I see.

Looking out
on this piss pouring, cloudy day,

I find it hard to unravel.