Poems

(My first Poem: From 1968. Age 12. Not very good but included for the record.)

 

The Mist Shape

 

The early morning mist shape
glides ghost-like
across a field
silver with hoar frost.
Nothing stirs but this eerie form.
Birds are absent from their choirstalls in the hedgerow
and nature’s silence seems to mourn for their return.
There are no tombstones here
nothing for a spirit to haunt
but black bushes
in winter sleep.

The mist shape winds around a tree
its icy fingers grope among the boughs.
What is it seeking?
The branches are bare
and inhospitable.

 

 


(The next poem springs from 10th April 1973: Age 16.)

 

Toward the Moon

 

Life
an intermission of eternity
on paper wings
weary of hail.

Wrenched matter shapes us
under stars breath.
Black for a colour
to cover our wounds
while belief goes dying on the lips
and dreams dissolve
in gentle nuance of farewell.

I try to brush these thoughts
from my hair.

An old prayer
seeps
toward the Moon.

Scant full prattle
same far
fall.

 


(Next 2 Poems from 1974. Age 18.)

 

Remembrance

 

Weighed in smothering Night
insecurity cleaves us.
We crave for a tautness
of boundaries.

Skin lit up once more by day
a few wonder what others did in darkness.
Most people are the same again.
Some will never be the same again.

 

 


 

 

The Floating Mind

 

At a terminus of the floating Mind
Life has entered its egg.
Dreaming about a land of waterfalls
encased in warm lava of the soul
ensnared there by song
patterns chatter through neurons
Imagining sunset in ancient days
or running before wrath
of those forsaken.
Trying to ignore the sound
from a forlorn wind
an oracle of emptiness.

 

 


 

 

 

MicroPoems

(Fun: from 1976, age 19. Horizontal lines separate each one.)

 

Though
it sounds risky
I cough with you.


The music
anti-clockwise
but very bright.


Winding
the road
forgets itself.


A little bandage of silence
as I step out
into the fog.


Play by ear
don’t wait
for moonlight.


In the eye
spasms of light
relaxing.


Rock walls
bringing her name
back to me.


Snow
coating the mouth
mute white.


Talk to me.
Break
my mirror into pieces.

 


 

Trap-door Vortex

 

I want to take a holiday
into the sane world
and cold blue eyes

Off that edge of electricity
tunneling in spiral flame
which unscrews behind this mirror

My mind like a small unstoppered bottle
trembling
from the fall
of heavy boots.

 

 


 

Art

 

Creasing a path
into the absurd
Some coat a sky with so much colour
mist is taken for a face.
Yet geometry remains
scarring its web
back along the eye
of an artist
following a picture
never quite revealed.

 

 


 

Dream Triad

 

1 Entrance

 

Grotesque
memory flashed before her.
Through the gloom
objects sank to shadow.
“I feel faint” she thought
” but I must not give way.”
Intuiting vastness
beyond her frightened face
to one side a cool draught
its source an Entrance
like a grave
steps slanting down.
What passageway was this?
Finding a Door
again she hesitated
as if vines clung to her body
and a yearning elixir
called
from another part of the Dream.

 

2 The Click

 

At the sound of falling
her breath tightened.
A dim light flared
then movement overhead
coming closer
unknown shapes.

She braced herself
and heard the Click.

 

3 Ivy

 

The Door had shut.
Groping her way in darkness
one hand brushing ivy
with its nervy engines of leaves
against skin
she tore an old spiders web
feeling empty in her heart.

It seemed a long time
since she had been kissed.

 

 


 

Secrets are for spies

 

Explore a face.
Mine reveals little:
this tired old mug
fit only
to be endured.
Though sometimes
my mouth bears fruit.
Yet secrets remain
I can’t help you with them
Secrets are for spies.

 

 


(That was the last Poem of my teens. The next page 1976-7 is the start of my twenties.)

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