The Sunlit Silence
It is a sunlit day,
But the sun is a liar,
And the moon is a whore,
Full of unkempt promises,
Peppering the night with stars.
They fall one by one,
While the sky is blue,
So the heart can suffer expediently,
Slowly and thoroughly in secrecy,
Under the guise of privacy,
In a paper bag called respect.
The Hot House Flower
The red clematis has flowered,
Spring has tricked me again.
The yellow daffodils and blue bells,
Are parading in the neighbours gardens,
But they will wilt like the magicians secret,
I will have learnt, as the season passes.
The white blossom has already fallen,
Gathering as words on grey stone parchment,
Where phonetics become ridiculously important,
Describing myself on the pavements I walk.
Holding two peeled hard boiled eggs, one in each hand, he presses them, staring into their shining reflection.
Softly puncturing and pushing his thumbs into their white flesh. They crumble like paper eyes that have been written on a thousand times, left to fall endlessly out of his sticky palms.
To Touch the Sun
The branches pierce the sun,
Like spears through a glowing ball,
I would like to move it above me,
Casting no shadow in the forest,
Its appearance in the lake is a false light,
Held by the nets of reflection,
Shown up by surface ripples,
I wish to wade in and grab the illusion,
But to what point,
As it disappears,
Sunk soon as I enter the water.
Blue to Red
The sky is flat, bright and blue,
Trees jump out from their smooth background,
The birds hold on for dear life,
Dear life shakes them off like spat out pomegranate seeds,
Turning the sky red, full, fleshy and forlorn,
Like the story of one among many.
The Empty Wall
The sky is a wall,
With the horizons trees pressed into it,
Blue has become two-dimensional,
The sky’s emptiness cannot tell of its depth.
From the Bowels of a Boat
From the bowels of a boat
On course for the shorelinne,
Alone he hid,
Hearing the machinery of the sea,
Its valves and pipes pumping out
Black water into the night.
Not knowing what
The cold foam would become of him.
Spelling mistakes reminded me
Where I have to go tomorrow,
Commas make me take
Full stops push me
Forward to the end,
Quotation marks bring me
Closer to you.
A Change of Record
I gave myself a ticket,
For every time it rained,
And exchanged it for a recording
That played the sound of sunshine.
The Slow Moon
The crescent moon
I walked beside
As I turned the corner.
Now looking back,
My neck bent,
I might not see it again.
What goes up must come down
Black moths fall from the light bulb,
Like cotton candy into the mouths of babes.
Like a sweet shadow
Over the wet feet of experience.
Grass is thrown up,
By hands idling the oncoming autumn,
Like rice pelting a misinformed September couple.
And the eyes that strain upwards,
Carry the sights of the sky,
To the ground where they can be weighed today.
Crows gather like graphite arrows,
Some on tree ends,
Others spread out territorially on the field,
All pointing straight ahead with jerked necks.
They stare waiting for me to drop dead,
I mean them no harm,
Yet I wait to see them drop,
I trust their motivation more than my own.
They come and go,
The ones that tell you what to do,
They are they and are in the know,
You follow them even though they are the few.
They smile through their bitter news,
Never knowing you,
Sometimes alone, sometimes in crews,
Still you have not paid your dues.
You follow their advice,
They say it will be good and you’ll feel nice,
But really you are to forget what you once were,
That is their device.