Stay The Moon



On a constant path descending
With gooseberry seasons ending
For mackerel sauce we searched.

Hooked many years by fish,
Beneath that bush our every wish
We stirred in gooseberry fools;

Rhubarb too, did crumble,
Time through fingers fumble,
Poured in to an oily pool.

When my peers awake,
They will see that dreadful lake
And fear their fruitless doom,

For I too once was as they are,
And though I watch from here afar
Unable now to stay the moon,

With a bulbous cultivar,
Poetry my scimitar,
I’ll cut my lonely gloom.

A Tuscan Sunset

Love danced
On a terrace in Tuscany,
Panacea and a panopoly,
Not of a clunky bronze
Cuirassier’s
Arrow-riddled armour
For defending hearts
Flintlock futures
Penetrated easily, no;
Etymologies discarded
And I deferred the word
To verse and cursive
Arrangements of Love,
The fruits of Spring’s
Labour cascaded
Through your arteries
As remedies for writers’
Journals, and they
Gave it a name,
Writer’s Block,
For their
Blank pages were as
Sphinx-like
And eternal as the
Unblinking eyes
Of a glaring of cats.

So I write for you,
Remembering the extent
Of the scent and the sight
Of olives, peppermint
And citrus oils,
All excited and
Heightened
The senses for
Your hair unbridled with
A Tuscan fire of oranges,
Imbued me
With new romantic
Prophesies.

Primavera skies,
A parabolic shift
Under the cupolas
And blissful
Wisteria witnessing
As we kissed.
Sunset’s backdrops recanted,
We waltzed
With perfect timing
Over the catacombs
Of what we once had,
But never could return.

Haiku #407 – #410

407.

Irony governed me;
When I knew too late I lived,
Instead I found this.

408.

Poetry unites
With struggles for the best form,
Struggles bear poems

409.

Like fruit found hanging
Could not conceive to explore
What was not before.

410.

The messenger knocks
Three times, steps back with parcels,
Postworkers new gods.