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Thoughts perhaps

For the last ten days or so I’ve been struggling to find a reason to keep on writing. It’s the time of year when death is uppermost in my mind, my mother’s birthday, the anniversary of her death, the festival of the dead and the start of the dark half of the year. Thanks to a friend insisting (nagging) that I don’t give up, I went back to the Oracle. I think the message is that some things don’t need a reason.

Forgive me if I don’t feel like ‘joining’ though, and have bowed out of the interactive scene. Hanging around on the margins is enough.

What follows starts with the eight square poem I wrote yesterday, leading into the Oracle’s response this morning. I have ended it with a coda of my own.

 

There is no more in these hands to

shape and form into butterflies,

no more music in the flute of

the wind. There was little of worth

and nothing to match the ripple

of stream or birdsong. Now I watch

the rain, the mist rising, sunlight

falling, and that must be enough.

 

Listen to the words in the wind that pours,

see how the ice grows red as fire in the sky,

fly in the face of the poison men spread,

and perfume the night with the scent of roses.

I will sail into this sky wet with stars (or is it rain?),

where the broken and the brilliant fish

their slow desires in the well of eternity,

where the morning wakes like thunder,

and your soft ghost of a smile

dances blue as the overwhelming salt ocean.

 

Wind blows sea whispers (from rock and wave)

across the skin of the sky,

rain sings in water shadows, purple and

black as a night far from the land.

I wonder if the moon is less than the sun

when she swims with dolphins through spray

petal light and creamed with foam,

and why I can no longer hold the elusive blue

and gold of twilights in my hands.

Is red the only colour of time?

 

These are questions few can answer,

perhaps the black pearls sleeping in deep waters,

perhaps pearls of moondrops falling in deep waters

or rain in puddles beneath a November sky.

Perhaps there are no answers,

perhaps they are the wrong questions,

but I will paint my thoughts in the sky

at the back of my head behind my eyes,

full of this sunset obscured by rain.

 

Signing off

Just a note to everyone I haven’t replied to, first to apologise, second to say that I might not be around for a while as my computer is in its death throes and getting a new one at present is mission (almost) impossible.

That’s all folks. See you on the other side.

Waiting in line

For the dverse prompt.

 

The masked faces keep their distance but all I

want is the bread for the week and then I will

 

fly back to the leaky nest where birdsong filters

beneath the doors and mice pitter-patter

 

in the cupboards and dog and cats will come

out curious even pleased to greet me home.

 

So much might change but it won’t the masked

faces will change to bland indifferent ones

 

the moon will swell give birth to the stars

and shrink and tomorrow the hoopoes

 

will boom their spring beat as if the

world’s rhythm had not changed.

Dawn

Bambi2

I love this place with its layers of song

and the traces of criss-crossing hoof and paw

bird voices calling taking it in turns

to send echoes racing.

 

I love it as I love Redon colours

the tragic beauty of a Marc

intangible elusive

brushed with fingertips never seized

always the onlooker.

 

We think we own because we have measured

signed papers handed over cash.

 

Wind blows.

 

Sunlight stretches leaves unfurl

blossom scatters in the wind.

A shower patters, ringing wild garlic bells.

The blackbird looks at me with bright eye,

tugs at a worm.

 

I watch the world whisk by

in the flash of a white scut.

Pity the censorious

Hieronymus_Bosch_036

Evil writhes in glistening coils in the

scaled and furred hoofed and clawed

 

glistens in luxury and concupiscence

the moistly slip-sliding of nakedness.

 

Women tempting with apples breasts moon-

buttocked laugh at the pure eyes averted.

 

The paintbrush probes scalpel-like beneath

the skin delighting in entrails devoured

 

and the charred flavour of flaming hair

a dab of the branding iron the flaying knife

 

all the devious instruments for prising out pain

you paint with delectation. Only a priest-painter

 

clothed in the hair shirt of purity and self-

inflicted pain an artist with an aura of sanctity

 

could weigh in the balance

and find so many wanting.

 

Pity the censorious for theirs is the arid desert

of ash the blood-soaked sand of Golgotha.