Wednesday, September 01, 2010

Tattooed Enigma

She sits in front of me

A row away to the right,

Draped in those ebony locks

A vision of cherubic perfection.

She sits over hunching,

Looking from time to time,

Away from ardent page

Where she talks to herself

Through loops of tribal sketches.

Talking of overt authority

And the people’s consent,

And their leaders true

And their killer’s moves,

What spins in your mind?

I ask thee classmate,

Girl with the dragon tattoo.

For it caught my eye

First and foremost,

That snaking shape

That reared grandly

Across her left shoulder,

Swirling from under dress

In one long sinuous curve.

O’ twisting Green Dragon

Why your fierce eyes,

Is that not thine guise?

Do you spurn thy mount,

And yearn for thine skies?


Meaning What

I’ve heard this before,

Again just now, about

Milling around meaning.

Myopic nomads in desserts

Yearning for better whys.

Myriad hordes through time

Enter this vaunted debate,

Agonising over reason and how

Naught in tales or lives

Inspires great thought or heart,

Never aspires to lofty heights

Going on round the meaning cart.

Admiring hawkers and vendors,

Never seeing the solitary roads

Deep in the market’s twisted lanes.

It’s not pity nor cousin empathy

That stops by my modest house,

Is it disdain then when I see

Swaying drunkards tottering about?

Other vintages just catch my eye

Nothing more and never less.

Learning from growing rocks,

Yielding to the sighs of the unsaid.

Minds opening eyes brightly keen

Imbibing essence from empty cups,

Near the surface, `neath the frothy waves

Easing through seas in my submarine.


Sunday, June 27, 2010

Lingering In the Small Hours.

Three have rung since midnight,
My pen paws and waits
As I collect my still friends,
Those quietly yearning thoughts
That meditate and wait,
Till we begin the call to hunt.

Friends and my mates
Away in the distance,
Perhaps by some need,
Have communed, and are
Still on churning walls
That call to webs,
Which stretch net-like
To catch collected feeling.

Over, and down hills
We chase the essence
Of my ticking heart,
My Lady, she so fair
I map every point,
Of her soul on body
That wears it's beauty.
Complexity that beguiles
Yet with no wiles,
Save her I's and My's.

Glen Goyne calls to us
As Baileys raises glass,
But we can't answer.
Constitution of body
Allows not sweet partake,
Of that sublime spirit
Trickling from Emerald Isle,
And my anguished wail
Travels the Highlands.
The silvered packets
Of eight and ten,
Attest my morning elegy.

The cigarette burns
Consumed by intake,
I hold it 'twixt fingers
That casually flick ash,
And then a question.
What smokes me?

Must I rhyme,
Continue my pantomime?
Should this be dropped
And that left behind?
Could I change my ways
To swim in strange streams?

Would I care to listen
That someone writes my dreams?

And I wonder
As I'm wont to do,
Does all end well?
In fire or ice, or
The urinal of want,
In some obscure corner
Of a garbage dump;
Will we find on the floor
Like in bad cups of chai,
The sodden dregs
Of our dreary world?

But now as before
I must content being,
With the songs of redemption
That Jamaican lustily sang.
He who was shot with lead
Still believed and said,
Love and peace my brethren.


Saturday, June 19, 2010

Stirring Emptied Cups

There are birds here
There and now in then,
I can see them
Could watch beaks and eyes,
But then and now still
I can't hear their souls
Or yet perceive flight.

There still be flowers
Here and there,
Sometimes in when,
I could look at them
Can caress their petals,
But now and then
I couldn't smell their being,
Still can't sense their colour.

I sit inside and out there
Having held my empty cup,
I had seen it's clay
And known it's every crease,
I drank from it
Then and till now,
I sip it's subtle content
Here and again will,
In slowing trickles
Spill onto paper,
To begin my wait
For visited reflection.


Wednesday, June 16, 2010

My Refusal.

Pondering the lay of the world
Witnessing the way of events,
Floating in this listless sea
Do you not feel sick?

Don't you taste that slimy slug
Slithering ooze bold and thick,
As it cloys the world and self
With trails of fiery words, soured emotion
Closing your mouth with it's clammy plug?

Can't you hear that rattle and clink
That follows the slam of drawers,
As clacking keys move vault doors
That clang shut in cavernous sound,
And yet fail to muffle the constant blare
Of the wailing whir of money counters?

Can't you see the vivid smear
Of leering Pride and mounting Ego
That rapes the innocence of good Intention,
While the hustler Greed chalks his cue
And pockets his ball in the left corner,
As he eye's Necessity's deepening cleavage
As she bends over the table clad in sultry red?

Don't you smell the thickening fumes
That rise from the bog of arrogance,
Which bubbles and boils in this heat
With the wafting perfume of lilies,
From crushed petals strewn about,
That swell through the stench of smoke?

Shouldn't you sense, by now,
The corruption of an imperfect ideal
Or the pandering of weaker wills,
Polluting the instance with circumstance
Inviolating the mitigation of damnation?

This is the home stretch, no doubt.
Nearing the future with soft tread,
Ought the blade cleave the mists
While the ploughshare yet exists?