braille
braille rain
hanging in d r o p s on life’s line
for now
when
even the trout stream has gone
and no
no amount of a beautiful past
can compensate
this composite of memories
of childhood suns and moons
through the varying openings
of a window’s breadth
no
even the webs are brailled
with the bodies of flies
dust in the corners eyed
failing insight
into the true meaning of demise
when the sun burns it all away
and the lids shrivel
for no rain is
why we jaw jaw
my mind is a ouija board that writes poetry
for me
it is suspended in a universe of words each one a star forming an infinite number of galaxies
each one named poem
the poet the reader
binary stars rotating
at the speed of wonder
that no asked question
can hope to pin in
a cosy algorithm
soon maybe
it looks like now is the time
the planets are in alignment
war stalks the shadows
spotlights are confused
blinded by the mirrors
they have turned away
strike now is the rumour
and so they will
maybe
violin concerto by william walton
the wind
arrives
in the tree’s
leaves
upon a raft of music
the sea leaves
the sky falls away
up and away
just is is all there is
what sweet spirit did write this
not the moment to ask asks
and no reply is no expectation’s loss
for floating with no thought
the quickened pulse slows the moment
hanging on no breath of air
embroidery
when the words fall slowly
as quietly as a dusk
then the breathing of them
returns as the sleep of all angst
the memories come
to curl up beside you
a blanket embroidered with your smile
divine wind
it has happened before
the bang and the drop
the quivering death
floored by the tree’s reflection
the ghost of its wings
held by the summer drought
washed by the storm
the reflections re-quiver
soon there will be another
‘what was that?!’
and euthanasia may
or may not be done
and dusted again
lie there
slipping through our fingers
times like
these
those
that were
and were no more
than said breath
jump start
there were wrecks of cars
that we set about wrecking
shrieks through broken windscreens
gripped the wheel steering
our hoard of diamonds
through the unbroken dreams
childhood
that unplanned frenzy
drove us in unison
through those broken days
kids of glass
just smashing
reading ‘the man who went into the west’
hot
the cat and i
under the open window
considering
me my book
the cat her bat-hunted dream
cool
the languid jazz
slowly
the book settles
the yesterdays of a poet’s fame
garnered in all the winds of how
each corner was turned
it is settled
oh no ~ you’re not clever
these are not clever words of yours
showing off words show you up
the mountebank’s magic potion
for
these words are not yours
they have been on other tongues
down the ages
that have said things
that you could never imagine
no
the laying of these words is a borrowing
artificial intelligence before it was re-invented
all and every thing (translate ‘thing’)
was integrated into the tegument of your thoughts
from just being here there and everywhere
no
you are not clever
so don’t think your last poem
this poem
is the epitome of your cleverness
for we can see through you
even if we cannot see through ourselves
for
the mind is a bingo machine of words
bald words that carry the weight of a full house
if only one could tick-off all of the boxes
on the tombola of this blank page
which of course is an insatiable white hole
although the clown just falls apart
we remember his smile
long after the master of ceremonies
has hung up his top hat
