O Barqueiro, A Coruña

To finally sleep
Is all my thinking needs.

A stone in the slowly
Unfurling
Ocean,
Insistent waves,
Incessant waves
Murmuring
Unseen.

But I am afraid
Of the
Deep,
Deep,
Deep.

Dark fish are there,
Gloomy, alone; they forget;
Through dank seaweed stare,
And by trawler nets
They are longing for home.

Yet how can I ever go home.
There are no stones left
To throw and there are
No oceans here,
Just the sounds
Of lawnmower motors
And dogs beserkly barking
At nothing at all.

No More For Me The Sun

No more did you need for me,
No more for me the Sun;
Desire’s a mangy bedfellow
When beds are made for one.

He turned my pillow inwardly,
History’s eye disinterred;
Bled salt from me, then westerly,
Fulfillment is deferred.

In crackling ice behind a shed
I found a frozen stem,
Within its roots more frozen there
My love is laid to rest.

Grey River

We knew of ancient love,
But change with an A my lady;
Now I know of sickness enough,
Convalescing whilst all’s fading,
My monochrome existence.

There will come a day
When I traverse Grey River;
I know that day is not today,
Little less strength to deliver.

I was born with arms
Just like you,
I was born with a heart
And lungs and a liver,
But all this lost art,
Immaterial now,
Lonely are those left to shiver.

My Beard

This beard tells me
I will effect change,
I will outlast
For I now recall how
I was told myriad times
As a frightened child
By the bullies and the doubters
And weird interlopers
That I would never make it so far
As to be something of the man.

Yet here I am still;
Wide-eyed, narrow exposure,
I grew up believing the wolf alarms
Long after my peers had departed
For work and wives while I remained
Faint-hearted. Some said
My heart was not for restarting,
That I would not last until the morning,
And although my hand is sometimes
Shaking uncontrollably,
And although I cannot do so much
That all the others do so well,
My beard in the morning-room mirror
Through blind grit and bare graft
Tells me I am alive in daylight-bells,
My beard tells me, irrevocably,
That without the silent breaking
There is little point in a spell.

Just Surviving

I live within an illness
No one else can see;
Neither lesions blue
Nor bruises true,
My disfiguring ivy climbs
More deadly underneath.
I slowly bore witness;
How people retreated
From the bleeding
And the peeling –
Their movements
Are much the same today
Away from me, a routine
Diminishing mirror image,
They could evaporate
The bones in my heart,
These exsanguinated shadows,
My leprosy made apparent
In the parabolas of my
Homeless dome,
Emerging beneath my bare Enola,
Arms outstretched,
Not one person to hold.

The world is lacking outrage now.
I know why my father lied
When he said I had no business
In being a father myself.
Feather in his cap,
Imagination leaks,
My fear is only from not knowing
The difference between my loneliness
And my outgoing dreams.

Washing Up

This strange, unusual place,
How will I ever reconcile
Or indeed escape
From stories they have painted
On the walls of my four caves.
Great tales of sabotage,
I trace a sodden lineage along
Dark ribs in the cobwebby palace
Of a bloated, long-dead whale.

I miss any such season
I am not within;
Endless losses to ego,
I can wage war on myself
Yet hide from my own shadows.
I thought about you briefly
As I washed up clean plates again.
Not so much a memory now,
More electrolytes and impulses,
I slalom life’s whitening streams
And dream of reaching a pool
Or a lake of immeasurable peace.

I know that you want me to be like you.
It would satisfy you, to see me fail again.
You pushed me from your soul-belfry,
Then pealed the burnishing bells
In something akin to horror.

When I have finally conquered my self
Belatedly, too late a Pyrrhic victory,
Will my body arraigned be laid to rest
On that old man’s dusty shelf,
Just until the next unknowable rain.