All 21 entries tagged Poetry

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December 09, 2005

v – Vetriano

Bend her back
Light her cigarette
But not yet
And let your hand
Creep up her thigh

Not to wonder
That the charge
In the air
Like breath
On your neck
Is there
Like iron filings
A tang of copper.

Fingers slide over skin
Slip in
Feel her quiver
With some emotion
You shiver
To feel.

November 26, 2005

Two more Jazz poems

iii Ė Foggy Day

Silver shadows
Spray painted fog
Acid in my throat

Finger clicks
Bass licks
Trapped in a mist
Lying low,
Shifting slow.

Take the paper off
Accidental paint clings
A frosty outline
On wood beneath
A sharp sprayed line.

iv Ė Early Riser

Teasing strands of
Wet hair straight.
Roast coffee brewing
To the bubbling jive
Of morning.

Grey sweatered
Thinned out
With paper doubt
And lack of sleep
That keeps
You sane.

Dew still settling
Sarah Vaughan
Crooning as you
Paint your face
For the day

November 25, 2005

End of Day

My mind shuts down
Of its own accord
My eyes too.
The pen still scratches.

Must write.
Get it down,
Get it out.
The mind shuts down
Spills out the reels
Of shot film
From behind the eyes.
The dark room
Fills with todayís rushes.

Tomorrow it will all
Be cut and dried
Preserved, edited.
Tonight, todayís memories
Are tangled threads
Of imaginary celluloid
Spilt on paper
And they can be anything.

November 19, 2005

ii – Time after Time

Chance, I hit upon
A song long forgotten
Or perhaps never really known
Lyric-less but singing
Like arms opened

Hard cities
Harder loves lost
The strange familiar
Look in every colour eye
Shy and yet un-shy

Hanging notes
Dropped to float
Travelling back
To the hand that bites
The heart that feeds it.

i – First Frost

Sultry Angel Eyes
Fog outside
Hot fire in crisp
Green-grey air
And my dark hair
Partially in my eye

The view like country
House and garden
Waugh, Vetriano
That Poliakoff one

A moment is a moment
Both here and there
In frost-filled air
Strains of saxophone
Just as much home
Then as now.

November 18, 2005

The Leech

It battens on
Sly insidious
Tugging, sucking at the heart
This leech-like thing, love.

Pull it off
Its maw still clings
And you tear at your flesh
To scratch it out.

The only way it seems
Is to burn it out
Cleanse with fire
But still you are sore.

Or wait for it to satisfy
Itself, feeding on you
Till you are drained
And it drops off of its own accord.

And yet, I have a mortal wound
The sickness of a poison dart
And the pressure of too much blood
Makes my heart race fit to break.

So here I wait
For my leech-lover
To share my sanguine passion
And let me breathe again.

November 03, 2005

Before We Go

I lie awake
Under summerís red tree
Blue bowl of moonless sky,
My Gethsemane

Dancing smoke
In darkened rooms
Hands writhe like snakes
Day comes too soon.

You made my breath catch
Standing so close
On the same blade of grass,
A moment of almost.

November 02, 2005

Meditations on a Go Board

How beautiful the board from a distance.
Like the monochrome battle of ant- armies
Forming Ant-patterns in the ultimate chaos
Of Go-board phase-space. Quantum Physicist
And Samurai likewise appeased
By this miniature titanic clash.

October 23, 2005

Jude's House

There is a golden cross painted in blood above the door. There is always a fire burning inside; thin fingers of smoke reach out from the chimney in prayer to the unnamed. This is the house that takes so long to get to that no matter how many times youíve walked the path to the door, youíll still only get there the moment before youíre about to give up.

Casualties of causes
Lost lie listless in the lounge
Covered in comforters,
Big blankets over bolsters and blood
Soaked away in sheets of stratus
Cloud cotton.
Patched up in patchwork rugs
Wrapped in white wool, waiting
By the burning embers
Of the dying dreams

Cosiness is relative.
The scent of baking wafts through the place:
Familiarity after days of standing on shifting sands.
Here there is no need for hope.

A man, walking in the desert at night to avoid the searing sun, looks up at the stars. They have illuminated nothing for him. Not even the faint edges of a bad poem. He can trace the constellations he invented because he did not know the real ones; too bad no-one will ever teach him their real names now. The sands around him, dead rock and ground down bone and shell, whisper with a thousand dead voices of barrenness, despair and loss. He shouts that he will not listen, and the hungry land swallows up even that. He turns his face to the heavens, and does not see the black chasm opening up at his feet.
He clings on where there is nothing to cling on to. The sand slowly trickles away from beneath his grip like an hourglass marking time until his eventual demise. He knows itís coming, knows there is nothing more he can do but count the seconds, not knowing if there are thirty, twenty, ten, two. He mutters a brief prayer, and lets go.

Jude finishes his stint at the Last Chance Saloon
Sweeping up the dregs of the evening,
Heads through the swing doors out into the dark.
Listens to prayers he canít answer,
And sadly floats away.

Old friend and patron, you and I know each other well. I have walked your walk many times along the edge of the precipice, the curved graph line that dangles over the edge of infinity. Yours is the hand that promises nothing Ė the two seven off suit. Yours is the storm tossed boat on the vast ocean. Yours is the last grasping hold before the long descent. Yours is that hour of the night that grows darkest, when the dawn that seems so far off is closer than you think. Yours is the hand that stretches out through the black fog that no other can penetrate. You are the unexpected, un-hoped for miracle.

You used to like stories told by word of mouth.
The old ones are the best, arenít they, Jude?
Yeah. The old ones.
Your cousin, was he your cousin, Jude?
He used to tell some great ones.
And he always had the best wines.
Where is he now, Jude?

And the door creaks open on well worn hinges, his footsteps are heard in the hall.
His coat is dropped on the banister rail, and the kitchen kettle sings out a welcome.

The bedroom light no longer works.
We sleep shrouded in a velvet cloak
Soft, soundless slumber. Numbed
By the sickly scent of lilies.
Serenaded by the singing of swans.
Sunset comes, and the evening star
Slowly slips over the horizon, slinks
In at the window, silent as a whisper.

A constant candle crouches
At the bedside, and Jude,
The memory of a mother
Holds one helpless hand
Soothes the passing of the night.

Sometimes all that is left is oblivion,
The last mercy is the call when no other dares
And we obey, and turn again home.

What is home?
The refuge, the last retreat
The end of the road.
Jude heads to the study and surrounds himself with cosy prose.
Writes his diary
Goes to bed.

October 09, 2005

Autumn in the North

Autumn in the North is not Mellow
Though we do have mists.
Here, each wind is Winter's emmissary,
Reminding us this middle season
Is somehow more transitory.
Pine needles crunch underfoot,
Things grey, pale, fade
To a whisper on the wind.

But there are days
When the blast that blows
Has such a sweet, clear tang
Of memories long past
And days when life was lived
I swear the angels themselves would weep.

August 2020

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