Poetry Drafts

The oven speaks to me
in riddles before termination,
Me Me calling to attention,
ME ME EMPTY ME
it calls to anyone present;
I am
present,
I am
coming,
I am
the baker, the maker of sweet dreams:
sugar, honey, butter and oats;
(golden syrup would also do)
turned in the oven at 180C
into the sweetest of loves
there will ever be; ah, Jack
ye ol’ ripper did not name these
little beauties, the flapping of wings
did, though …
Ah, the wait for the cake (cake?)
the final step in my love make
ing, the wait the wait the … wait
for the first kiss of her sweet lips

— awaits.

Twenty winters later
the dreams are gone,
no memories remain
of why, of how, Oh why?
Did I stumble, stumble and fall
for another, another land
near but far,
fields of green like green fields
forests like woods, mere copses
lakes wet but oh, so far apart
and without paths and access
through private lands
of private people, and ladders
to climb from the bottom rung.

Twenty winters later
the dreams are gone,
memories absent without leave,
permission to depart rejected
by … the Fearful Department
of Unexpected Outcomes Ltd;
no jig brings joy
no gaol but chains
welded firm by firm hands.

Twenty winters later
the dreams are done,
Twenty winters further
& all will be gone.

culturally deprived, my language lost
in time, maybe possibly unlikely
to be found on foreign soil,
bound between foreign trees,
soaring in foreign skies
like birds of other kinds;

culturally deprived, my identity lost
in space, maybe possibly unlikely
to be found in foreign lands,
nailed to foreign walls,
stamped into passport in blue
like red without a union flag;

culturally deprived, a self lost
in otherness, maybe
possibly
unlikely
– ever to be found.

She comes in darkness
with candled crown,
in our darkest of days
She walks among us,
the bringer of light
She carry us all,
through the shrinking days
towards rebirths of earth,
heart, and life thirst.
She departs in darkness
but leaves a lasting light
– behind.

You Would…

Warts and all, you will take me;
go then and seek solace in my lost soul,
find comfort behind my floppy ears
and tingling fingers;
find purpose where ever be
found, where for ever be found,
where the forever
is found;
that is where I will be
– waiting

Warts and all, you will take me,
make me
find me
a soul and proper ears,
steady hands and a heart to share.

Ahhhhh, if only … I had warts
and all … a lost soul and … ears,
unsteady hands …

You would take me, take me.
You would.
Would… take me …

warts and all …

You would…

Bound by Sin

 

We wrote words — on glass
with a keyboard — of glass

We wrote from voices within
speaking the voices without

hesitation.

We cut down the trees
We pulped, pushed

and pressed
the words upon the paper,

bound it by sin and more pressure
as homage to the fallen ones.

We wrote words — on glass
We mourned the fallen,

Boye, Hemingway, Plath, Sexton, Woolf,
we mourned their words — unwritten.

We wrote words to remind us
of what we once were,

we wrote words for others
just to remember

— us …

Once, dropped to solid earth

in a late autumnal snowstorm;

desire carried no weight

as the wanting voice pitched

to deaf or muffled ears;

white wheels creaked

along unpaved local paths,

the curious child of time

beheld a sky in grey hues

and a single swaying rattle.


Later. Snow. Piles of snow.

Blue skies and a golden eye,

and the muffled sound of comfort.


Later later. Snowless worlds.

Blackened skies.

Rattled, without rattles.


Later later still. World-less worlds.

Invisible skies.

… without…


Now. A transient charm tickles

those lost and latent memories,

warnings of snow and ice

warms a frozen heart,

awakes a longing

– to return.

white, like snowdrops in March
the spider’s web glistens, frozen
threads woven for warm summer’s day
abandoned to the song of winter,
crystals swivel and swerve
in a sparkly river dance
finding by mere chance
a place for a final rest
before the new ray of day
turns the virgin land of man
into mush.

The Swell of Possibilities

I follow the train of thought
back to the front
to find no locomotive, no
locomotion, levers left
beside a broken track;
a cowering figure covering eyes
ears, mouth; … a piercing peep
high above the low clouds,
I ascend through white waters
rafting higher and higher
on the continuing canal of promise;
no backwards only frontwards
the new train of thought in flight
towards the newborn bird of prey
calling my name, calling for me
to let my wings unfold as I surf
the swell of possibilities,
loop-de-loop the spiralling sky
towards infinity.

Gilded Guilt

I showered my walls in golden rays,
in streaks of golden dew;
descended towards a scent
roasted, toasted – a life of joy
abundant.

Oh, runny honey silken money
where would we be without these
our gilded bees
buzzing from plant to trees
from houses without fees
to our own jared realities.

Runny honey settled down,
firm in mind and firm in flesh
as pipes crack
and concrete crumble;
heat-less hell frozen over.

I shower my walls in golden rays,
in streaks of golden dew;
descend towards a scent
of sewage, raw – a life
sequestered and scanty;
dreams of buzzing bees dwindling.

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