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.
pinning a note on the wall – artillery takes my loved one away again
Quote of the day.
“All in all, Russia has shot itself in both feet, the balls, and finally in the head.”
And something to remember:
“When I despair, I remember that all through history the ways of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants, and murderers, and for a time they can seem invincible, but in the end they always fall. Think of it–always.”
Majestically, she strode to the edge of sun baked sand, like an hourglass held up by time, before she became still; her long legs equidistant
man lay heel to toe with a savage sun – humanity encrusted with parched earth, it had partially eaten him –
a dried out white dove clung to an exposed ribcage; a much needed perch for a wasted observer tired of flying, tired of singing, lost in his search for peace. Its feathers, etched from fine, dried clay – were fissure like veins devoid of faith – baked outside of death, 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, which 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
immediately, he was quenched, fed. Arid skin of dust and clay fell away, as did the shell of the dove, which had replaced his heart – its wings shattered into a thousand pieces like baby soft powder dusting the gritty, sparkling floor
in the breeze, billowing white clouds conjured 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 rising once more as blood red 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 lands lapped by 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, his reflection caught on her glass bosom, it shattered her hourglass frame
she was released
a thousand more grains of sand flowed like the salt of his tears – sprinkling gently from a watering can’s wise rose to try to feed the presumption of green leaves between his toes
his flaking sinews were pulled to his chest; he wore a crude hole where the dove had nestled – dust stung his eyes and, his tattered hands rose, forming 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 of jewel fish; 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 titanium white doves; all of the notes to harmonise with 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
We are more than breath and bones, or the dust of a soul’s divide that gilds our pale faces with heavenly alchemy; we are combined essences swirling underneath complex skin with all of love’s triumphant splendour placed on our brows.
We are more than breath and bones with no more taught sinew to soothe since all mapped outreaches tethered by distance and timid pasts have been conquered, and before intruders, unseen, steal west with their disgrace. We stay low and soft within this warm, diaphanous wrap; it is no fair costume this skin of faux silk.
We are more than breath and bones, as within each of us lies such vast continents yet to be stroked, to align with us under our blue skies. Synapses crawl to make us, messaged and volatile, their eager grip might conquer us still… we are more than breath and bones, and we will not be torn asunder.
We are more than breath and bones, or the thousands of strange shadows that tend us; each have all but one shade, and poor imitations lend counterfeit images, all of you. But, the truth lies in a kiss of your cheek, and there I see us in every shape and shadow we know.
Humanity will find peace, even within the storm; a ferocity that engulfs a body and makes it limp, exhausted and mute will also embrace the indifference of each soul’s worship – just as honey drips stubborn and slow – ultimately it will be free as the storm dissipates.
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.
As the blackest consequences fall,
dimly, the lights do cower.
Wrap a sling on what is happening,
a soothing for those deeds most dour.
Cities ruminate and eagles spread,
bare chested crests have fallen,
gliding still on uneasy shifts
in tumultuous winds and their calling.
Growling, angry, red faced fire (‘fire like you’ve never seen’,
there’s never been such a fire; a good fire!)
seats the ferment of a land’s
crackling glories and scattered chances
all swept by a wretched, wounded hand.
In today’s time of glorified turmoil,
we see full horror at first glance;
faced with egomania, now a common aura,
and with this disease, we have no chance.
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 roll over 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.
As it Comes 