Friday, July 29, 2011

Violin strings

Violin strings, unsure what she’ll say
tightly strung bows, wrapped in fingers
dragged... across scalp
Screaming Notes, made from hair.

Four strings tuned - to a fifth
holding bridge, till tensions part
and vibrating sound - echoes
singing, unwound starts  
the opera walls cry, as
fingerboards pressed…deep
changing pitch……

On your feet, you stand
with buckled knees, which clang
the sounding post, digs deep
in "F" holes, that scream away
supporting bridge, as flying tails
whip about, and waggled chins…sag.

Violin strings - die away…..
freeing hands stop their play
a quiet sound, fades----… 
until a teardrop - quivering
lands upon

- the stage.

She Drank Time

She drank time …. until it was cold
guzzled it down her throat until
the doors closed to her unhinged mind
then swayed back and forth, to squeaks
of chains, dragging across dirt floors
which bound her, all the same
to steel post, rooted deep - to untold life.

She drank time, till the clock ran out
no chimes to ring, no song sung
desperate twisted thoughts unwrung
she thought that’s when life began
soaked - in dreaded fright
shaking out, lost dim lights
sparkled eyes, now gone
arms wrapped tight
to lost alleys…
in the dead
of -----
night .

Monday, July 18, 2011

You'll be Fine

Vacant is the heart, where she pierced the man
as he danced on his towered page
wrapped in a blackened hood, soiled of age
He called out to her, hoping she understood.

A message wrapped in wire, careful to unwind
she rocked on stimming horse - a strategy of mind
while he yelled at her with eyes, which drank her in
tranquility of gin and sobered thoughts
eventually, she drew a line of saber'd ink
to defend against the blind - a mental pace without a face
she raced to buy some time.

While dreams played on ivory keys, and spoons clattered
in a metal sink - unsure what to think
she decided to turn the key, and let the poor soul in
with a broken heart, he was falling apart,
how could she let him be.

An open door, to a torn mind, a shadow and a light
A dry brush, on naked canvas, he dragged across her sight
these startled thoughts she painted - with clarity of mind
Then held him to her world; you're okay now, struggle all you want
but I'll hold you, you're with me now
- and you'll be fine.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

I Tried – But I’m Just a Scatter-head

Image by Rosie Hardy
My poem entry for One Shoot Sunday 17 July 2011, at One Stop Poetry

I tried to meditate
contemplate, reflect
and recollect
but my thoughts -
like three at once
were on the run.
I tried to focus
a purpose of mind
by intention
and not design
yet I still felt.....
I tried to think of a place
a difference of time
all these running thoughts
of mine.....
I tried to think of a farmer
and his wife
he had a gun
and she – a knife
- the tales.... she could tell.
I tried
but in the end
my thoughts just ran away
I guess.....
I’m just a scatter-head.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Just I

I had a room
but no money
a floor with an "X"
but no "Y"

I stood in a long line
a snapshot
on a rainy day
then a broken photo
but I said it was okay.

I sat by a telephone
listening to a ring which fades
your breath - a curse away.

I made a sound
a cellar full of noise
too deep, so it lost its way
what more could I say.

I wrote a letter
each word unreadable
a sentence - never heard
invisible was I.

I also had a tear
I lost it when internally I cried
but then I laughed
I must have been okay
so there was no reply.

Maybe it's just I
who plays a game with me
but maybe it's you
and you just don't realize
but I think you do.

Either way
at the end of each day
It's just I.

Sunday, July 10, 2011

No Longer Does He Care

I wrote this for an old army friend who I just spoke to on the phone, and near his end, in all ways unimaginable.
He swims beneath a sea
wounds buried in the salt
fighting for humanity
a judgment of default. 

Now parched is death
cracked beneath skin
his laughter hoarse
falters the banality of sins.

These are the harsh realities
which bay behind the eyes
as dreams are washed away
on drenched tongues
and flaming throats…

Acid bile, which chokes
words slurred
to sputtered thoughts
soon to be a ragged flag
strewn on this soured floor
a door slammed
no saving grace
no coat to shelter
lost is face.

Pipes which clatter
hot bags of air
the only skirts which flutter
are the open drapes
blowing with despair.

Heels dragged
bagged and tagged
the finalities are at an end.

No longer does he care.

I Am Your King

Image by NeilAlexander
My poem entry for One Shoot Sunday 10 July 2011, at One Stop Poetry

I am a Soldier - and a King
anklets, wrapped
snakes chained to death
look around and see….
- My Empire!

Deep lined and carved
vines hacked
till ruins are stayed
upon the temple'd peaks
of Mount Meru
and the Hindu gods
who stoop beyond a bow
- so far away.

Build my temple
on blood soaked grounds
where I'll sit in peaceful grace
then cleanse the stones
with heaven's nymphs
for I am your King
they are mine,
and you… are bound.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Who Will Pick the Apples Now

Feet wide and deep of breath
surveyed, with barreled chest
is the taste of spring, now a-buzz
on mornings breeze….

pink and white and blossoms free -
listening to the bees, which sing.

So succulent, the memories taste
when a smiled tree is born,
which bares the fruit
once naked were the limbs.

How fresh, is the harkened scent
returned upon… the morning air -
of an Old Orchard's Inn.

But tired is the bark…
of sweat stained backs
who've tilled the lush… between
basaltic ridges, in valley'd fertile land.

Now arid is the creak of porch and bones
as wild seeds of youth are sown
upon the harvest shadowed moons -
by the seeping dreams, which flow…..
down to gnarled concrete roots
just before the edge
- of a Halifax sea.

Rotten are the dreams
of old baskets, empty -
withered grey, without sound
new generations…
stoop, searching - yet unfound.

Who will pick the apples now
- left laying on the ground.