Let us sneak off, together
Into the shadowy night, and dance,
To the rhythm – of our beating hearts.
Into the shadowy night, and dance,
To the rhythm – of our beating hearts.
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The spider's web is intricate,
a circular work of art like a net with thin lines of wire which shine silver in the sun. It hangs on the front gate bending and blowing in the wind as if a tent or sails of a boat. But there's no sign of its owner who has left the property vacant, only a solitary leaf and chaff caught in its deadly jaws yet a fly will be doomed soon enough and as I stare at the web realise a wonder of nature...lies before my eyes. He watched the rain
As it washed away the snow And felt an emptiness for the earth That transcends reality Sophia weaves within my garden
teaching daughters while victims harden a ballerina of the high wire her body reflecting Autumns fire fascinated by the things I fear I noticed her the other year while photographing her minute life quite uncaring of worldly strife her single minded purity of purpose silver web turns in aerial circus my spider friend has such a deft touch deadly she is; pities not her crutch a cross of Wolf and Harvest breed I admire her and fuel her need designed by a most delicate hand she builds our bridges strand by strand... A starfish crawls across the wreck of a ship
The hull opened like a tuna fish can Plastic bottles filled with water Awaken the hereafter Late monsoon rains
noisy frogs rivalling train horns for length of song They called her blue for her eyes
were the colour of the Mojave sky. He plays her only album once more deep into a starry night and peers at her photograph which shows an alluring young woman with a grin yet her eyes tell of a darkness within and as another sad song draws to a close he remembers her at her best but the poison had enticed her again after abstaining for so long. He stares into the vastness of space but the silver moon and stars do not care and he does not feel her presence is there. Soft moonlight, in the gloaming
Night birds call out In greeting. Come, join the fun! A tree hit my car today
moved across into my lane and scraped all down one side. Must have grown legs I guess. Reminds me of that dog who ate my homework when I was eleven. Truth is stranger than fiction. They pour out
from their flats and houses into the maw of the city with Friday highs as if existence were all blue skies. Soon they’ll be out of their minds on chemical beers and non-vintage wines these huddled masses whose souls lie in their senses. And so the night goes on and on as life goes on until they crash coupled or alone into Lethe-like sleep and final oblivion. The slightly sagging breasts
that once promised ripeness the faded bloom of an elder rose that conjures impure thoughts unlike love, this feeling more urgent, basic feeling sullied in emotional decadence This exciting taboo that breathless quivers the spine, of younger man having sex with an older woman he will remember her forever when all the bright young things have been long forgotten... Close your eyes, relax--
Rest your troubled mind, for fresh Beginnings await! A pretentious fraud
An aging hippy Past his prime Yet unaware Of time he forgot To remember Morgan and Doug owned an apartment building together.
Morgan wanted to squeeze the most money from his tenants while Doug had more compassion. “Raise rent too high,” Doug said, “and people won’t be able to afford it,” Morgan replied, “That’s too bad. Let them move out. We’ll replace them with a better class of people.” “It’s not ethical, Morgan. You have to treat people fairly. You can’t take advantage of them.” In two years, the housing market crashed. Morgan and Doug couldn’t pay their mortgage and went bankrupt. Morgan ended up homeless while Doug managed with help from his friends. The teapots of comfort sail
across the darkened sea of my id places we keep things, or make a warm drink, to soothe a troubled kitchen The teapots of comfort, where I keep my memories days out, bus tickets, past loves trapped thoughts images of relatives missed to death The teapots of comfort, march like a Red Square parade, across the shelves, a collection collected by someone else to fill her empty life... Deep in the heart of Ceredigion
a million miles from the bustling city lies the sinister Devil's Bridge. Local legend claims it was built by Satan but in reality the benign hands of monks who worshipped a rather different power toiled in rain and snow hour after hour. As I peer over this fine bridge I sense their ghosts as I listen to the sizzling soothing sound of the waterfall cascading down the deep gorge as the sun breaks through and shade retreats across hills, breeze caressing my hair, I'm free from chains...as I breathe the fresh air. I thought of you tonight.
I was standing by the window eyes gazing into space while I watched the moon dance over the multicolored rooftops. From a chaotic nothingness that tomorrow will always be here I created blind images of you. Meanwhile, a siren was heard in the distance scanning the hours in the loneliness of the night and beating incessantly against my window. From a nearby rooftop the crumbling shadow of a chimney suddenly came crashing against an empty space and quickly vanished. I picture men with grand moustaches
and long shorts over a century ago scoring goals which would not stand in this day and age of "techno" football. I imagine a drab wet afternoon, terraces weeping and supporters as well, no games played, Bury trapped in hell. Yet they were once a giant in the land winning the FA Cup in 1900 and again in 1903 but Gigg Lane's glory days are far past United and City shirts donned in the town. The rain is the tears from fans' ghosts in the sky recalling magic times... from days gone by. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 100 words remains the approximate target. Archives
March 2020
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