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Showing posts from November, 2018
28. Birds
They pit their nest of mud and spit along the eaves, from which they skip
and dart, to twirl the sky,
chirrup a riot, twitter the twilight.

The black and smart, two ravens, the rogues, wiseguys, nodding their trot,
skew their squint, to seize you up,
and screech the designs they aim to plot.

A stork stands solid, Zen master, composed. Balanced on a single stalk,
his also orange beak tucked into
the down, the bulge of his chest, solemn sentinel.

The heron, senior barrister, attired in tails, sleek grey silk, fixated stare,
not a feather moves, rapier poised,
masking his dream of succulent froglets.

Pigeons waddle around to parade their fatness, their softness and neon shine,
pick the crumbs that pensioners sprinkle,
and irritatingly fail to finish their coo.

Gulls, pirates of the air, tug and tear plastic bags, flick and strew the refuse,
chase even the ravens from the corpses
plastered into slits of bricks on the road.

Insulation has driven the sparrows
away from the nooks and crannies of old h…
27 Night 2
Sleep was seldom without life, but now life is without sleep.

In darkness afoot the slippers are felt.

The door without slam along a finger lodged close.

Along the stairs streaks a line of lantern light.

In the garden, the shrubs mumble what cannot bear light.

Across the street the gables stand stern and keep mum.

And in the soil wriggles a mole, tunnels the dark.
26 Tender rip-off
A man holds up a piece of bread. A gull speeds up and swivels its beak
to train its beady eye.

Hangs still, but how does he do that, in foaming waves, stiff with salt?
He edges in, with infinite care

in tender stealth, holding time, he wraps his beak around the bread,
and, snap, he catapults off.

His screech dies out on the horizon, sharp as a knife, cutting across
his feathered belly. Then he returns.


25. The stream
Down the path along the house, past fleshy plants with velvet leaves.
A potent tree, veins of ivy winding
around its trunk, trembles its branches.

Through a tunnel of foliage: prickly sprigs that clutch and stick.
The earth is soggy, hidden water,
lisping, and breathing musk.

On to the delight of the stream.
Clear water glides and tugs
at a bough that lingers, twirls
around a rock that curls a wave.

A girl bursts up with a gasp, a glistening seal. She flings her hair,
spatters a shower, extends a cool,
limp hand: how do you do.

24. Adolescent lament
Free, not held, no longer caught, stepped across the threshold,
steeped in the travel of thought.

No more betrayal of futurity No more posture of rundown relations,
compromised ideals, paraded as maturity.

Through the eye of the needle you go through possible worlds that show
mirages of meaning and glow.

That you can delve and touch and take, and explore, in the escape of poetry,
that puts everything at stake.

In poetry lies not the strict and the strong, the deal with a deal, but the flight of song,
and the beginning and end of the glad and the sad.
23. Civil servant
O, slow Sisyphus, heaves the rock,
rocks to budge.

Toils it up, pushes his pen,
pulls his weight.

Upon delivery to the top,
there is nobility in the desolate
figure, unburdened for now.

Lightened, looking about, surveying the land,
the bushes and streams,

and the rush of a deer. Relishing life for a spell, until
the government falls again,

its stony weight comes crashing, down, and he trundles
down to resume, without a grumble.