So Long The Ceasefire

My head is a bread bin
Without any bread,
Where loaves were stored
Mould’s sprawling instead.

My body a trawler
With no herring for kippers;
Caught by a storm,
Overboard skippers,
Returning to port
With no smoke for a dinner.

My soul a cathedral
Burned for a cause,
So long the ceasefire,
Bombs did not pause.

Finally, my mind has vacated,
My body, and my will;
Standing at a bus stop crying,
Placated by the thrill.

Window Soul

Why was I designed for isolation?
I must be my own contagion
And these environs
My ICU.

I miss you so much.
Burn my eyes
From wombs of my existence,
It will be a lesser pain.

Outside, beyond this ward
With its outdated equipment
And exhausted professionals,
Trees, yellow and frail,
Decaying before me,
And then my favourite
Type of rain, as I explained
Previously, mizzling,
Fine drizzling, and for a moment
I convince myself
That my soul could be ignited
Once again.

Annealed



Out from ice I hauled my heart,
Cauterized rings on my fingers,
Crimson crevasse, I restart,
The smell of smoke still lingers.

End of words, which subjugate,
My soul took shape before me,
I stood before an hour late
To know the snow and sea.

I peered back over the open lip,
Chaotic astral origins, be true,
Looking over my shoulder did slip
My ghost all ripped and blue.

And my soul took his place in my chest,
A precipice there was sealed;
That healing forest, I take my rest,
Within a blizzard annealed.



Pumpkin Brain



Rain displaces
Later autumn leaves.
Nature creates
And preconceives
In these people
An evident worry
And their hurry
With umbrellas,
Heads facing down
Eternally, merely,
Indiscernible, nearly,
Similarities converge
As they submerge
In delayed memories.

People consider rain
As twin for a misery,
Yet I only find comfort,
Only delight to see.

Film studio rain, exotic
Drops sized like swollen conkers –
Hope from her atmospheric
Constraints unfrozen
And released.

Rain berates
My war chest.
When he beats me,
I do not want
For the beating to stop.

I would have tried
Once to help, but my
Pumpkin brain
Had stringy roots
Scooped out
For a partisan mob,
Orange pulpy mulch
For soup or squash,
Jagged teeth,
Unholy nose,
Remnants
Saved to decompose
In a row, in rainfall,
Before a garden grows.

Ode To A Writer

Carve within your soul a space
For all you want to do,
All other lives, no better place,
To navigate for you.

Ego’s lease, no lesser rate,
If others would deprive,
Nothing more may captivate
Than knowing you will thrive.

No more boors to prop a door
Enforcing your denial,
Renounce a vestige of their chores
And write your script awhile.

Create a space within your day
And see your lines alit,
As incremental time gives way
To charm, and grace, and wit.

Lazuline

A renewed sadness befalls,
Unconditional as dawn
As she yawns across
Her blue waterfall-hair,
Her languorous manner
No longer enthralled,
Nor so equally
A source of despair.

I slowly drank a cup of tea
As time unminded his hours
And I sensed the ghost of myself.
Your last school photograph
Landed on my doormat this morning –
A smudged inky crest betrayed
What rested inside.
Your blue tie
Looser than it should be,
For which I would have gently
Chided and addressed
With a father’s careful hands;
Your pursed smile
Undeniably self-conscious
Not for your natural and
Certainly unfamiliar
If also not filial
Grace and intelligence,
But instead I knew
Instinctively,
Wordlessly,
You felt it necessary
To disguise
Your dental braces, yet still
Despite that withholding
Your humour could not be denied,
For it would always be belied
By an unmistakable
Iridescence
Traced like soul rainbows
Within your eyes of lazuline.

How many years have you been gone now?
How many more occasions will pass by?
Your photographs stopped arriving
After that last one,
Along with birthday cards
And the moon’s innumerable markers.
Sometimes it is better to lose count
Than have painful memories revived
Of how we survived.

The dewiest morning remembered –
I dreamt then in photographs,
In portraits and still life,
Some salvaged moments of you
Ascend into a fleeting
Feeling of pride,
Soon dissipated by
That appalling dawn;
For what good is the use
Of a smile and a song,
When all’s been gone
For far too long.

Boondocks Soul

Harvest moon,
Spoke too soon,
Sometimes this sadness
Could encircle
Vast treelines
In crimson lagoons.

I dreamt of the rest
While I slept on a boon.

Snow falls in my dreams
All year round;
Underneath,
A grey-bluish peat,
A muteness abounds.

Hoped for the best,
Received so much less,
I woke to a scent
I would describe
Neologistically
As nutmeggishness.

A northern moorhen cried;
The harvest also died.
I said I spoke too soon.

Time Capsule

Carefully,
O so carefully,
Three convenors
Unpacked my
Cracked and dullish
Antique soul,
Dusted it down,
Then planted her
Purged uncertain
Roots preserved
Diligently,
As diligently as
Ushers for Autumn,
And as attentively
As heavenly plotters
For a gravedigging daughter.
There was no little ceremony,
Deft moves with economy
All of their own,
Padlocks and padding,
Bricks for the weighting,
Their lips switching
Beyond linguistics
And everyday knowledge,
The ways of nature,
The birds in their words
And trees in their homage,
Uttering under each breath
Esoteric phrases –
The curse of the left –
As by my soul
I was slowly dripped
Into a humble
Unadorned
Time capsule.

A commemorative
Century passed by;
Then, without plaques
Or fanfares
Or industry all adrift,
An appointed time
Arrived, silently,
With nobody there
To open the lid.