Broken Windows

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Did you see too much –
get woken up again
far into the night?
Cascading,
black, inky dreams’ shade
hides thoughts that
sneak into the white chalk of daylight –
deftly wafting to mingle
with the sad dust
far from settled
since she died that night.

You still see too much
now you’re alone,
reaching far in the night
to hold her hands, soft,
and warm until all those tender
thoughts
warp and realisation
stabs your heart.
I still watch you inside her dreams; sleep’s
invisible games throw
you from the bed.

Now you try to close your eyes
to sleep at night –
and dreams the dreams
before she died,
frantically scratching open
windows long since jammed
shut to breathe
the outside world’s hollow air –
the air waiting for her when she woke up –
all just to suck up
this fucking mess?

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Desolate Sounds

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O quilted sky
drape gently on me
here in my shallow darkness.
Before the moon is high,
let me in as nightfall’s
shadow soaked image
becomes secreted
under such a fine cloak,
and this day, which has seen
all there is to see,
is hidden underneath it all.
As I lay crying, I will remember
not to wish or want for it all;
sadness is what it is,
but because it is nightfall
where no one can see,
I will share my thoughts
before I dream
to the edge of sleep –
and until its frayed corners
sift the yawns of sunshine
and covers this bed.
I will rise refreshed on my
bleak horizon
and watch the morning’s
soft dew dissipate
with tears still in my eyes
trying to escape with it
into the air’s naked light
where birds,
half lit, wake
to congregate as buds on boughs
with fingers spread to
temper such glowing
melody; their songs will echo
the stirring winds ’til this full chorus
becomes the daylight of each new day,
and I can breathe it all in.

Such a Tiny Thing

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

Lift the curtain high at dawn
let the flickering candles yawn.

Tall trees aglow,
clouds full of snow,
laden with light,
sing black on white,
snow flurry sneeze
small feathers freeze.

Fly little bird
lift up and fight,
go little bird
circle the light,
sleep little bird,
a peaceful goodnight.

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 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.

Melancholia

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Woodcut by Albrecht Dürer

I feel like I am drifting
call me close.
The sky is not uplifting
small the dose
of despair’s bitter taste and remedies.
Tomorrow’s sun is shy
the moon is high tonight
should I die,
and if I do I won’t know
what your summer was like
or what your winter will be
all the while without me.
Will the birds sing sweetly still,
or will summer cry a misty chill
when haunting autumn sweeps a melody
of dead leaves chasing our abandoned tree?
Cling to me but wrap yourself tenderly
in warmer summer days.

I feel I have been taken,
hold me near.
These dreams are not for waking,
all in fear –
no colours here amid sleeping hope
tomorrow’s day is turned to night
but morning is here
I will die tonight –
but before I do, tell me
what you will do without me
and how you will send me
into spring’s warm arms awaiting
summer’s amber smile abating
into autumn’s cooler sating
of the ambling seasons all
longing for winter’s sigh –

I feel like I am slipping
hold my fears…

To Dream in Autumn

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reaching into the night
outstretched arms inside
autumn’s rainfall
make peace within a lonely mind
whilst he still dreams
in a beautiful sleep
amid a lullaby’s pitter patter

gentle breaths extinguish
the oil lamp – disturbed fragrances
permeate the old wood
and ashes still warm
from his fire making way for dreams
and then sunlight where he would sit
for breakfast

his bowls is empty, and hollow hearts
sing in the distance as usual breezes
come to waft away the spirited
red leaves covering the steps
always cleared for him
to greet each new day; but today
a spent pot’s dying smells dissipate
into the cold air with him clutching
the rain as he leaves

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