there is no other peace quite like this—
ne’er did i know a calm of such great claim.
claim to me, without force or twist of will—
I cannot place, I do not know its name.
I did not knock or ask or seek to find,
no hinge did creak beyond my finger’s touch.
my lips were resolutely stopped of praise,
I was not on the lookout for this much.
the sculpted world does sit around me now.
a masterpiece knows it’s faults— it points them
out, and gives us tools to sweetly right them.
an artist pokes to deeper thoughts allow.
such art is given us with which to play—
i know of One who does not go away.
sticky bubbles dried on the spoon, it was past midday. coffee was cold, still sweet. sugar in a glass jar and a dark dark wooden table, rich. i thought of squirrels and nests and felt sorry.
i saw bendy black banisters and wire lamplights – a stack of highchairs and three girls in round glasses.. spectacled beauty. my insides jumped and milk mixed sorely with acid.
he has long long hair – maybe he is lightning. i should have stayed, oh i should have stayed but is not one’s own company the best to enjoy while one is still bearable?
ONE! TWO! THREE!
three gongs on some hidden chime. a glinting silver cup rises and falls, bread is broken. it melts in my mouth like snow, the dark red wine is strong and bitter. i looked to the windows as i walked to my seat.
here is my golden pen. it is not enough no never enough not beautiful enough for mother’s day – nothing nothing is! i want to give her the world and everything in it.
to be before the loveliest of views,
is to have your mother as your muse.
beige-headed cloud bird, i watch from the warm
as great circles crooning o’er chimney and slat
you glow in brown crimson ‘gainst light of morn.
wise eyes scour like ice, for vole, bird or rat.
o’er treetops thou drift in mighty estate,
while blackbirds and seagulls claw at thy wing.
grey snow clouds desperate to unload cold weight
are but wet, windy backdrops for what thy bring.
i’m at the window. i’m waiting still,
hot fingers steaming — hips leant on the sill.
i’ll watch as you dive through eight o’clock’s sky
yet inward thank that my food’s not so high.
red kite in thy splendour, teach me of death —
teach me the true treasure of each full breath.
a rich gold scarf does bind his forehead. jaw
of divine carving, he will gaze until
we all have crumbled into dust and bone.
he holds the midpoint, some curator’s will
to herald hedonistic man’s delight
has kept him cardinally on this wall.
i wonder would we know his face at all,
had desperate hearts been satisfied and right.
behind me, on the left is one who gave
much deeper praise to that which selfish man
took and took and took because ‘we just can’;
he is peasant poetry, calm and grave.
nature’s deft spokesman, soft as summer’s breeze
in orange fields immortal with sweet ease.
the movie buffered on and hummed all morn,
as does the cricket in his grassy cove.
girls spake loud of frizzy playground chat
as down beneath the sil’vry pond it dove.
the lonely chapel is bright
in new electric light,
coloured glass and polished wood of old
burnished in our wake.