Year
All in poetry
The scaffolding is a skeleton around the house
it’s holding us together,
rib after rib of humans, living.
someone is dancing on top of my head,
stomping hearty laughs about the place
as tunes swoon in misty kitchens.
I’m trapped in the underbelly.
In this bog basement
throwing rocks at my reflection in the window
Voices are fluid,
tumbling over words,
caught at the corner of mouths longing for connection.
The murmur of tongues loosened by cold pints - sun snatched minutes in coats on benches.
The sight of groups of bodies.
Thinking turns to thunking,
Slushy, mulchy, gloopy, shruggy.
Heartbeat’s thumping, rib-filled rocks
and rocky days in dazes.
No stop, ‘till you drop.
in this space with you,
skin on skin, touching.
tuck me under your wing,
this soft-cottoned night
these smudges of time
are beautiful nothing
- just the sight of you,
hair skewiff, star-fishing
He is the feel of a brown suede boot
laced up with folk songs and wine.
He holds all my laughter in little jars of pickled time.
His voice is the harbour where I moor my boat,
where footprints fan out in grains of sand.
Passion cuts things to pieces
like a shard of broken mirror
that warps a once soft reflection
into jagged shreds of light and skin.
Feel the hot flesh pulse
and flinch in momentary madness.
This transient touch
melts dignity like wax
and bleeds out restlessly
like a beacon of sordid wants.
Bite the lip of sensuality
and bury the questioning mind
under grappled skin and wet hopes
of subdued loneliness.
Tiredness is something worn on the head,
the never-ending wrap
of selfish fog,
it renders you blind,
hangs, with limp hostility around the brain,
dampens the synapses,
mutes the mind.
Education
is loose rag for bodies,
a fine silk for minds
woven in knowledge and time.
Born
in folly nakedness
our fingers reach out
for those glinting threads
of meaning
and feeling
to hush and hold
and swaddle our souls
‘till our voices ride breaths
and sow words that give depth
to the days spent in light
and in sorrow.
Make the cloth for a better tomorrow.
to dream. to exist.
sensibly
sanely
holding darkness within;
within walls, alone…
continue
absolute reality;
Lay steadily shut; firm,
under doors and bricks
wood and stone
Long Haunting years
are met by some,
no larks
for the sane organism
Feasted, the buds that lay on our tongues,
Wild are our minds, never ceasing to run,
Filled are our ears with music and words,
Moved are our bodies, yet what seems absurd,
The quiet of night is hard to bear,
When you long for someone to stroke your hair.
Lick the rawness of hurt,
Let it wash over you,
Until the day comes,
When sparks start to smoulder,
Taking their breath,
Draw them out like a splinter
And build then your fire,
Let it nurse you back to life.
I am learning
that when I feel just about ready
to
BURST
into fire or floods,
to pick up a pen
and pour myself into ink.
