full moon at the pharmacy
the lunacy of polypharmacy
how many pills to climb out
of this atmosphere of fear
to stop reading orbit as
obituary in the dead of night’s
moon-struck standstill
here you take one more
step assured that white is right
on the night of a full-throated
howl
souvenirs
some given
some taken
souvenirs
what do they own
what is left of
memory now
split between
then and now
a long thread is stretched
twang cries
mentor-me-not
never write a poem
that knows where it’s going
if i do not
then how can you know
the destination my destiny
when i do not
the muse is a fuse
the poem an explosion
a few more megatons
here and there
so what
poetry is a chain reaction
come closer my readers
but mentor me not
poet me back
home and banking on it
now we is at home
and we hits the button
after checking the
‘are you sure’
yes
we has a coffee
and looks at our reflection
the screen has no cue
as to when
our trust started
no
we is staying in to check
that our balance is nice
sigh
7am and november is nearly over
on a grey morning quivering
in a yellow leaf wind
a hint of the sun’s absence
drops a robin
gone
back gone
like a candle flickering
the day counts the trees
not the ghost of an answer
can ghosts swim
can ghosts fly
what wall will hold
the waters of their whim
or the pillars of their sky
what sun through their cold
will suspend any time of why
that belief may never ever dim
or arms a youth enfold
on viewing a sculpture
what angle to view an arc
that will move the ground
that will renew the sky’s arc
tangential is hardly the word
to touch your thoughts
upon the curvature of time
well spent in contemplating
what drove her hands thus
to sculpt the unknown in you
That’s it!
I too love the way torrential rain
smooths a rough sea, brassy I call it
when a cloud sun tries its best.
Then the bleached shells,
an altar of past times of the many
out there still filtering my thoughts.
Driftwood?
I guess i am
RS Thomas
taking the words and burnishing them
returning them as carefully as stones
banging hymn books together
praising the dust
the golden spines of thought
we follow in the lee of
his duffle-coated eye
where is the wind coming from
has it shape-shifted the scene
stand still
he is turning around to look at you
piercingly past you
where has your eye been all these years
your prodigal ear
follow
it’s looking dark out
in the blackening widows
is that me looking in
the lights are reflecting
how far away is the moon
then the rain
ruining the view
of the blackness
but there is light
in the spheres
in the rivulet’s disorder
outside a candle is burning
in a tall glass case
winter flickers in
and out
it is looking darker
tanya wrote of her near death experience
a gift?
how many words dropped away
how many palindromes
had run back and forth
in a mind’s frown
how many words had been extracted
like rotten teething
before the only word left was
gift ~ NDE was a gift!
riding its ungrateful horse riddance
into the mouth a sunset’s dawn
unwrapped by you
as your gift to us
sigh
NDE was a gift?
late november
a petal staid on wet slate
slanting
sun searing the surf
swimming
against a black sky
blown vivid
rainbows everywhere
so many late leaves
gibbering
in the wind’s light like
caught earrings
reflected across a wall
wet seats and bejewelled tables
at half empty cafes
wry smiles in dryrobes
probably
a fast cooling sea
it’s a climb down
running from a shower
rattling the remaining
leaves not long now
and we can call it
the winter of
one of life’s
contentions
sunny smiles
sunrise between
the mist on the lake
and
the mountain snow
a custard slice
how nice
to write such silly words
and make it fun to watch
the day unfold its toils
with a smile
that only you know why
the sky is yours
alone
