The Spark There’s always a spark. The spark. The flash that ignites the fire. Just a glow at first, then a blaze. Flames shooting out randomly, choosing their directions. Out of my control. Out of all control. Creating and destroying as it will.
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Night Light There are light spaces in the dark Places for light to shine through, for stars to dance, for neons to cast their artificial glow. Hidden places where glowworms call to their mates. And the infinite space where lightening cuts through the night time storm and finds a home in some dark place and lights it up.
Lynn White: A Tale Of Height and Light Lynn White The Lighthouse I was a little crazy to buy the old lighthouse. I knew it at the time. But I wanted to be somewhere, somewhere where I could shine, shine lamps out into the vastness, shine like a beaming beacon. And it was so high. It matched my mood and then some. Higher than high. Higher than high. There was no housewarming. No one came. There was no one to come. So, only I could relish the exposure. Only I could walk round the top of the tower and look over the edge into the dark deep depths. Only I could see the swimmer, a mermaid, surely? waving. Or was she beckoning as she approached the mooring. Only I could come spiraling down. Come down from the heights to open the door, to run down the steps to the mooring. And then the lamps went out. Read the poetry of Lynn White Read a profile of Lynn White http://www.versewrights.com/
That Was Us That was us who wandered through Europe without maps or money, or sense of direction. Who got lost a lot, but didn’t get raped or murdered. So far as we can remember. Who charmed hoteliers into letting us stay for free. Who got up early (too cold to sleep), and cleaned the kitchen and the floors of the hostel in Laumiere for the first time in many years. Then sat on the stairs and said ‘No Pasaran’ to everyone, until it had dried, explaining carefully in languages we did not speak, why this was necessary. Who, with wide eyed innocence and impressively bad French failed to understand the policemen’s demands, ‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’ Until our new friends with the nice smiles and no papers had disappeared. ‘Vos papiers, s’il vous plait, vos papiers!’ Sod off! That was us who swam off the rocks, with a man we’d met in a cafe, because he said we co...
Michel Traveling through northern France with Michel driving. The Beatles singing on the radio, “Michelle, my belle”. A sky of uniform grey, dark, dark grey. And then, a surprise rainbow. And then, to one side, a helicopter outlined black. Mosquito like. Black. And then, I bottled it. I can still remember. First published in Silver Birch Press, Song Series, Reprinted in http://entropymag.org/variations-on-a-theme-michel/
In The End In the end I’ll be like you. Dust with flakes of skin and bone wrapped in long hair. Teeth chattering With no voice. No sense of taste or smell. No reason. In the end we'll be invisible, impenetrable, anonymous, figments. But then, we always were you and I, we always were. First Published in In Flight Magazine, Paper Plane Pilots, January 2015
Dream Catchers These hairy, feathery, stringy things are supposed to catch my dreams, but I don’t believe it. I’ve hung them above my bed and inspected them carefully in the morning but I’ve never found a dream caught in them, Not even a tiny dreamlet. No, they’re just a trick, a deception, to make me feel I can capture them and relive them when I want to. But I can’t. No one can ever go back to a dream. https://poetrybreakfast.com/
Revolution Round and round, the grinning, gaudy horses galloping round and round on the merry go round. Round and round, but the grins are faded now and the once bright horses drab and disheveled staggering and lurching. Round and round on the treadmill of the merry go round. Round and round. Round and round. Just one more revolution and they'll be ready. Ready to bite the hands that refused to feed them. Round and round. Round and round. Only one more revolution, to sharpen up the teeth. Round and round, just one more revolution on the not so merry go round. Reprinted in Quail Bell 2016 First published in Ealain, Karma issue, December 2015 http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-revolution
Summer in Gaza In the rain of the rockets there’s no water. Metal rain. In the rain of the rockets there’s no sunshine. Smoke rain. Black rain. In the rain of the rockets there’s no life. Death rain. Life ending rain. Death without life rain. In the rain of the rockets there’s no hope. Deaf rain. Deaf rain. Deaf rain. Death rain. http://www.localgemspoetrypress.com/the-poeteer.html
A Grey Place? This is a grey place, there's no denying. Grey slate, grey granite, grey houses built of both. And it rains a lot, there's no denying. Vertical, or horizontal, or swirling rain falling greyly from heavy misty clouds. But when caught by a sunbeam it makes glistening slides shimmering across the slate and falls in bright white tails or snakes like silver where the mountains leak it. And spills heavily over rocks, it's foaming, frothing, yellow ruffed cascades catching rainbows as they crash then spitting them back out in a fine spray of colours. And now there's no grey in the dark blue, black sky filled with gold and silver twinkles. No grey at all in this place now, there's no denying. First published by Silver Birch Press in Where I Live Series 2015 Reprinted in Shades Of The Same Skin http://www.amazon.co.uk/Shades-Same-Skin-Donna-Sanders/dp/0692679871
Wild Fruit I like the wild berries best. Juice spilling over. Bursting, staining my tongue purple or my lips red. Each one a new sensation. A little harder to come by, than the bland clones, the cultivars. A bit more of a struggle. And, it must be said, not always sweet. One never knows with these wild fruits. With each taste comes a surprise. Spit out the sour, take in the sweet. Such joy! Oh yes! the wild berries are the best. First Published in The Dawntreader, Summer 2015
Ground Force Gaza Another volley of stones. It’s frightening. Lucky we’re protected with our body armour. Lucky we’re safe inside our tanks. Frightening though. So many stones. Such big rocks lobbed by such little people. We’re not allowed to kill them if they’re under twelve. And orders are orders. But it’s difficult to tell sometimes. Could be worse though. Could be in a war zone with phosphorous flying and armour piercing shells doing more then scratch the paint. We could be fried alive in our tanks then. But now, here, only us can do the frying. First published by Vagabond Press in The Border Crossed Us - An Anthology To End Apartheid, October 2015 http://www.vagabondbooks.net/p/blog-page_13.html
Dandelion Seed There's a dandelion seed caught in your hair. A fluffy wisp of white and grey hanging there, suspended in your frothy crown. A shimmering seed held like a star in a wiry halo made by the light. Blow it away. Perhaps you will, if I tell you it's there. Blow it away. But it looks so beautiful suspended there. I won't tell you. I'll just admire it's beauty as it hangs in your hair. Blow it away. No, I won't. It will leave soon enough. Best not to rush these things. Who knows where they will end up after all. reprinted in Piker Press http://www.pikerpress.com/article.php?aID=6268
The Circus of My Dreams In the circus of my dreams the unicorns are are prancing, rearing up, flashing their rainbowed hooves, pointing with their golden horns, with their unique golden horns. Then, ridden by Leprechauns, they’re dancing round and round the circle of the ring. Kicking up the gold dust ground from their droppings into shimmering sawdust. In the circus of my dreams there is a rainbow. A rainbow which has painted their hooves with it’s light as they climbed their way up and slid their way down to the crock of gold at the end. Time for the little people to dismount and mould the gold into hearts of love. Time for the unicorns to use the gold to nurture and replenish their golden horns, their unique golden horns. First published in Pilcrow and Dagger 'Leprechauns and Love' http://www.pilcrowdagger.com/issues/
Sweet Heart He’d seen it glint earlier when a shaft of light hit the open box. He kept watch till they left. Back now, still watchful. Turn his head this way, then that. No cats. No humans. Upturned the box and seized his prize glinting gold among the dull browns and creams. Carried it off. Then carried it home, a home now fit for his new lover, his sweet heart. But he didn’t unwrap it. Didn’t discover the greater prize lying under the surface glitter. Didn’t find the jewel of sweetness in the centre. Soon life dulled the surface glitter, screwed it up. And the sweet heart melted in the warmth, Melted into sticky goo. Melted away as sweet hearts do. In Quail Bell - Unreal http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-sweet-heart
Ten Minutes In the next ten minutes I have to go, and you can’t let me just walk out of your life again. Can’t let you! Can’t stop you, I said, and I won’t try, won’t try. How can I? What should I do? Follow you from place to place? Sit outside your house and chance being turned away, by someone? I don’t know where it is, in any case and I don’t want to know. So what’s it to be? A thread? An occasional e mail to keep in touch? I don’t think so! Our lives are so distant in every way, how to join them up? The trick would be to store the memories and leave behind the sense of loss. Ditch the sadness. But we’ve tried before. And failed. And we’re running out of years. If we meet a next time, the chances are we’ll be to old to care. We need to achieve a modus vivendi, that will at least allow our lives to touch each other. Nothing less? And, in the next ten minutes! I said. ...
Separate Development We must develop separately, you and I, you on your side, me on mine. The wall between us unscalable, impenetrable, unfathomable. They built it so. We must undermine it, you and I, you on your side, me on mine, Burrow beneath the rocky foundation, scratch away, one stone at a time. Wall fall down. First published in The Miscreant, Issue 8 http://miscreantmagazine.com/2016/04/02/two-poems-8/
Am I Dreaming? Is this a dream, a mirage? I could be sleeping. I was looking out on trees with rooks calling and nesting when I started to eat my picnic. But am I asleep now? The trees are dancing, but no longer trees. Young people from another time are dancing to the music, swaying to the music of the crows. No longer crows though, but fiddlers and singers making raucous music for the dancing. So am I dreaming? The cheese is real though, and I’m still eating. I’m still chewing the bread and drinking the wine. And I can feel a stone against my back, digging into me. I’m sleepy now though. Will they be there when I wake? Or will I come back into life to see the trees and rooks as I clear away my picnic and pack up. http://www.quailbellmagazine.com/the-unreal/poem-am-i-dreaming
Beached He’s standing on the beach with a small suitcase. Not sure if he’s coming or going, if it’s an arrival or departure. It’s unclear. It’s unclear if the suitcase is full or if it’s empty. Once he packed it full of his dreams, but now it’s unclear if any remain. If any remain caught in the lining, perhaps. Or if all have been carried away and are gone forever on a storm tide, or washed up and buried in the sand. It’s unclear. All that is clear is the emptiness of a long horizon. First published in Paper Planes Inflight Magazine, Spring 2016 http://inflightlitmag.com/issues/issue7/
Lotus If in the afternoon I come upon a land and find the lotus blooming there, I wonder if I will recognise it’s flowers and fruits. I wonder if I will remember it’s story. And in the evening, after sniffing the fragrance of the flowers and tasting the fruit, will I have forgotten to wonder. First published in The Miscreant Issue 8 http://miscreantmagazine.com/2016/04/02/two-poems-8/