scorpion night 10 pdlyons
ruff poems
it was me with nothing left
to spire about
a complete enemy of words
a point of hot winter sun
hard glass walled heart un-bending
damp handed pen
not a thing left
at this point remembering the perfect portrait of the artist
touched not a myalgic fibre of my un-known self
so to hallowed hands
Ulysses trust all my open wound n proud flesh
one last a miracle
heal
bruised leg muse
heal
every curse of every failure
heal
father
heal
myself
purged
lazy soul
quick silver quenched
go on
do on
no do
more
a new
*
when last seas
iodizing sharif
hoarse whispers long meandering
scented by late November birth
salted scented tinctured gloves
slipping sticking sable sweat
soundly sighing satin and sighing
mother held by other hands I was
*
some un provoked violence
I’d bring up
sightless wordless
rage
shake n smash
slap n wake n pull
from a constricting bag of skin
a weep a wake
to leave breath n bone behind again
*
what waits
outside the darking dogs
secret traffics
pre day dawn
natural as breathed
sooner than not
seeped stopped
eased no more wondering
all that other time at last
briefer miracle
no more so I know
falsely I am
every changing shape shifting
so called life
a moment thing
which my am I?
*
My old cities
rose up out
from above
ruins bright n shining
goliath shrines
silver unlike any bird
shadowing resurrected bays
long veined polished rivers
symphonically far as any ancient woodland lore
*
propped up
best I can
most uncomfortable ever bed
crow sounds
silver sun shadows the page
all it takes to ease the ache
not even knowing
what I read
unconcerned
the largeness an open window
dissolves all imposed restrictions
of my self
and what would comfort done?
a sleep til noon then what?
*
Old shirt
smells
days
walking laying
sleeping eating
over-steamed radiators
warm spells February spring
But
the colour is good
fit is right and when I catch myself
passing mirrors in hallways
bathrooms
shop windows
turned off televisions
Stop
and/or
glance
at
who I am
breath caught a moment
Old shirt smell
still me
still who I was
and am now
years later
in need of a shower
*
my daughter asks me
why did people invent war…
don’t hey know it’s the devil no god that likes war?
do children have to fight
do they kill children too
boys?
and girls?
how old?
why don’t the soldiers just quit
and then the sound of helicopter passing
she thinks it wondrous dashes off to look
unlike those for whom that sound is terror
because of them
we must love the world
even more.
*
today
walking with trees
steps to my breath
thinking
the joy of being alive
is free
*
colours
all on a merry day
each steps a moment
pass the dancer
un seen dance
if you can see it
you’re not it.
*
all the same wonderings
ages of ifs
lifetimes of whys
each life
history of wonderings
where it leads
where it goes
how it begins
and whatever is the selling point?
good business
machinery of welcome
voices of an independent language
give way silenter than plastic tombs
small electric dances springs
a whirl only god could hear
if the ear of god had no hair no wax no smell
but god
has pious milk bone men
absolution in the dark
disciplined n cleansed
children
in this dark & the ear of god
blind as onan eyes
silent voices raw language
silent screams despaired on crosses born
all those wondrous children hearts
their darkness
a long test of utter failure.
*
and quite back
all winter skirts n scarves
chapel of candle smoke
shadow shifts
all some
warm whispered
deep into pools
of clear n dark n blue
*
stone
silent selfish
walls
no weather
no violence
no movement freely done
blind witness
observe
all that’s done
all un done
*
not knowing what is
birds no longer pass
instead
songs in my heart
*
women shapes
dapple grey
helix trees
any shadow moon
pools deeper that any sun
*
slow
moon
miles ran
rain bent
poplar pine
remembered snow
flickering yellowing
butterly lite
echoes of breath
along washing windows
as if washed
might sense
a meaning other than tomorrow
april comes
and here I am
un gone
un knowning
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