redigere
Angst (Part 2)
redigere
verse
The Heights
Neil Gunn basking in the sun
waiting for the warm deception of the sun’s rays
to tempt the passer-by out of their stone-cold hibernation
into the hard morning frost.
Angst (Part 1)
can a thing be a thing
if it does not exist
beyond the mind
I persist
Liathach
The ray of light that broke the cloud departed.
I descend; the pace increasing, the pulse
steadying after the shock.
Sat in its shadow as evening draws a close on the chapter
I survey the soaring ramparts, searching for the return
that will never come.
A joyful ache takes away the pain as I sit
staring at the pieces, pondering the next move;
upward glances marking time
in the silent lullaby of Liathach’s lament.
A senseless series of suppers
Would you have chosen the same
if you had known? Blown by the winds
of change and dissatisfaction.
A little goat’s milk, perhaps
some hard boiled eggs.
Would you take direction
from those who would document
your campaign or refrain
from hot sauce and hot topics
to settle for some corned beef?
Would it be a release, a relief
to know of your ultimate consumption?
Sit me up, turn me loose
the proof is in the pudding.
Monarch
grazing on borrowed time
on this harrowed earth
in the early evening
son of the new season
after the fasting
splendour emergent
after the casting
chained to the cycle
rebirth growth and death
A certain birdsong in the silence
[1]
I was lost when you found me
standing next to the stairway
another path not yet discerned.
[2]
I remember the small girl spat upon by the roadside
the violence of men fearing innocence
little sense as my strength betrayed me.
[3]
It was fear that tore me
from what I had known
certain truths will cut the ties.
[4]
I remember the young woman in the headscarf
the flowers that she had bought
a lump in my throat as she handed them to me.
[5]
It was absence that drove me
toward a certain uncertainty
my rebellion finally overthrown.
[6]
I remember the old woman gentle in wisdom
her husband by the open door
as he sat and bade a silent welcome to me .
[7]
It is not wisdom and yet
I am content to sit and listen
birdsong beckoning in the silence.
The loneliness of the long distance volunteer
It’s the same old faces at all the races
scribbling and scratching and watching
over their wards, who threaten to reciprocate
over cake and lashings of tea.
But those older, bolder and increasingly colder
guardians and shit-givers are left standing,
demanding aid whilst the promises fade
and a word of thanks remains a word.
A world of difference between doing and doing
but in the long run the sacrifice does not come
from those who toe the line and post a time
but those that would, and could, “but…”
It’s the same old faces at all the races
scribbling and scratching and watching
over their wards, who threaten to reciprocate
over cake and lashings of tea.
Filling in the blanks
Sitting, trying to write
a poem that’s not too trite
– or full of literary pranks –
but the sum of all the thanks
is to draw a page of blanks.
Brevity: the better part of valour
Needless
to say
and so
I didn’t
the jericho roads 