Designed For Kindness

We were only made for kindness.
And maybe too for love,

By times they sought to find us
We fled for heights above.

When marching near to wake us,
Briars brambled higher,

In passages returned to learn
They still can’t touch desire.

Millennia advanced,
And so too their militia,

Merely plumped our pillow-sage,
Impenetrable, the willow.

Being designed for kindness,
Sunk in sternum bone,

Though finally they killed us
With a single stone;

Though finally they killed us,
Who will now atone?

Savour The Saviour

Our love surpassed the ages;
We walked through antechambers
Lubricated by sun-bleached places
Where Summer rages
And engines hum
As life rises and buffers.

Unsuppressable truth,
Our love summoned blossom-snows
In August’s tundras, carved
In the rough rouge caves of March
Strange and exotic pentagrams;
Where our words were carved
You could taste just by touching.

Blood-golds infused and fast,
Conjoined with green tea
And lemongrass, tattooed by
These latest sensations
Our loving souls will outlast.

Toenail Soul

Wanting to wallow
In the wrongfulness of me,
I found a form of failing
Became my artistry.

My anuran tongue swallowed
In their final masterpiece;
The eight great lies in my life
Found at last assemblances
And momentary pangenesis
Like lizards in a creek,
Initially protozoic,
Then a simple slow unfurling
Inwardly, of tails and brains,
Until such time as galaxies
And all their hypothesised junkets
Unplugged and drained,
Seen through a
Telescopic lens
From beyond the maddening planets.

I've been painting the toenails
Of my soul again.
The dead have this tendency
To disregard boundaries,
To interrupt, to mishear,
And so I misappropriate myself
With many colours brushed,
To stay their ways
From being near.

When We Were Giants

Revitalised by rain
And changing directions of wind,
Supercharged by
Their grey and warming manes,
Reminded me that I am a giant
And I only took this smaller form
To be suppliant, as ever,
To the Goddess of Discretion.

The southern farmers are churning
Mounds of Friesian manure again;
Even my dandelion friends
Hold their delicate noses,
Those whose seeds
Gave birth to Time herself
Before disappearing injudiciously,
Slipping through their progeny’s fingers,
Disintegrating as swiftly
As a conscientious objector’s hopes.

I have a greater affinity
With the dappled fingertips
And gold-green keys
Of silver birch
And willow trees,
Those all too slender
Harbingers of water, of Life,
And my favourite, my old friend,
Those Lombardy Poplars
Which grew through my youth
Until they touched the lower sky,
Fastigiate-shaped as my soul
With burry words and
Blackened folds inside.

I sensed all this on my evening walk –
The scale of the task,
The age of the talk –
Before returning with my homeward self
And losing, until the next new winds,
The memories of way back when
We few men were giants.


Piscatorial

Don’t rely on me, little fish,
I’ll only let you down;
I am cursed within a wish
To wear your funeral gown.

Peering through the water,
Turbid there, and brown;
You wanted me for a daughter,
Forgetting how I drown.

Innocent eyes ignoring
As my spear struck down,
My visage clearly imploring,
Fishbones in my crown.

The last late catch did bloat,
I had to purge myself;
Derelict, a dampening boat,
An underwater schismed shelf.

Don’t rely on me, little fish,
I’ve seen the seaweed’s truth;
I’ll be served with a citrus dish,
Pierced by a piscine tooth.