After the squall
another step up the stony staircase
another step closer.
A striding beacon
towering in the middle distance
signalling that to come.
Each step fragile
memories pass father to son
a failing light burning bright.
Communication cord
The bridge had lost its lustre; that feat of engineering which spanned
the easy ebb and flow and troubled spates and spats.
The cantilevered communication cord between parallel banks of opinion
scarred with scribbles, oversaw the writing on the wall for lesser structures.
The odd creak but a reassuring solidity remained nonetheless.
There was an occasional facelift of course, a fresh burst of enthusiasm now and then
but even neglected it still outlived many life spans, generations of storms.
A monument to its simplicity and truth.
Symphony
A wild moon threatens the still
spruce silhouetted on the skyline.
The shadow hound stalks at pace,
scent marking his territory at will.
The owl screeches, wise to the time
whilst the seeker whistles prematurely
and a mother barks warning her kind.
The haunting echo of the distant roar
taunting the neighbouring balladeers,
a prelude: the percussive climax to come.
Ebb
too soon, too soon
too soon to say
whether I miss them
whether I’m just tired
whether the weather is getting me down
whether the tide waits for no man
whether that’s just for those without a plan
whether I’ll hide, survive or drown
too soon to say
too soon, too soon
Bursting
Finding my line is all well and good
but it does not help to flood
my lungs with the oxygen I so desperately need
to feed my blood
so I can soar away from the pain and succeed
rather than bleed and sink gasping
grasping for some hope and some sign
of a glorious descent
and the line drawn by another
The culinary nest of delight
I was going to write a poem
but where do you start to depart
from fact to Facebook fiction
from the fact that your kitchen
deviates from the public depiction
of a culinary nest of delight
rather it resembles scrambled
celebrity scroungers of the night
with the delicate aroma
of napalm in the morning
Seeking answers
They ask. Of course they do.
I would join them
– if only I could join them –
but I have met Why?
and spent time in its presence.
I’m no clearer of course, are you?
Seasons
Summer showers pass, the fast does not last,
Except for the poor straying souls that starve;
Still expected to remedy the past
Misdemeanours they did not themselves carve.
Reluctant to release its fiery nip,
Autumn holds onto its cold, brazen frost;
Occasional thaws calm a brittle tip,
Anxiety leaves as red trees count the cost.
Deep winter blankets cushion, howls and blows,
Comfort drawn from the store is forgiving.
The starry visitation comes and goes,
We remember that life is worth living.
Spring, oh at last, does bring ample bounty;
Time to feast – fruit released from its beauty.
Untitled (a beginning)
Exit right
It’s beyond the day after
and the aftermath does not add
to our joy or our laughter
but summons our pain
– reminiscent of infant earache –
underlying, intensifying, uncontrollable:
screaming for a solution to take
the bitter taste of the pill
from our hearts, our minds
suffering from our brother’s ills
– awaiting a dawn after the night –
in the muddy ruins of twilight.
the jericho roads 