Dreams of animals

Painting by Paul Sérusier.

No wind in my hair
the heat still as death
shimmering blue as damselfly wings
as blackbirds’ eggs.

Sitting by the lake
I listen to the woods
and their thousand sounds
a language I will never speak.

This spring light is sweet as roses
soft as peach skin
shining on these hills
and distant plains where murder is done.

We drive through frantic traffic
beneath a brazen sky
guided by the tiny sound
of two beating hearts.

Perhaps there will be no storm tonight
no moon
and we will see white Bóinne
scatter her milky stars across the sky.

Resolutions for the new world

I visited the Oracle today, having forgotten yesterday that it was Saturday, and accidentally used one of the old word sets. The result is an odd cadralore. Not sure if I hope this is a sign of things to come.

Resolutions for the new world

Beauty, the first word that springs
from the cluttered twigs of words,
to make a forest of a poem,
to soar in this brisk wind
and wheel overhead when night comes.

This dress I once loved
is a trick of the light,
a limp rag reflecting nothing of the past.
I kept it because you said you liked it.
You say you don’t remember.

All around me are symbols of the chocolate god,
sweet smiles sipping and nibbling,
the rustle of glossy paper,
and in the background, saccharine music plays.
I drop a coin in the beggar’s cup.

The shadow man says he can’t sweat,
and spring breezes over him with a shiver,
summer leaves him cold
I watch the way his eyes shift as he licks his lips
and wait for the flicker of the serpent’s tongue.

The beast is back, black and new hatched,
mad lies in the mist and looming rocks,
but we can defeat it if we would, with roses,
the soft purple-pink of evening light,
and the song of the thrush in the treetop.

Looking for what lies behind

Looking for what lies behind

This is how the aching starts,
when fingers pry apart the pieces and the music shatters.
I trudge through the muddy gaps between
looking for you, poles apart.

Drunk on spring air
the wind filling the trees with light
leaf-flutter and the spread wings of the winter survivors,
I shake off the ash of a hundred fires.

Rain we have had running in rills
rivulets and rivers to the sea.
Even the earth sighs with the spongy sound of it
punching holes in bedrock.

Dreams are like a lost language
painting pictures for the blind
their voices never cry out into waking
their tongues tied in rainbows.

Mist is your friend, you say, fills your hands with diamonds
but I long for a clear sky. Only pull back the veil
and you’ll see the budding meadow at your feet
the purple and gold in the sky.