Twitter bits – make what you will

hesitantly
stalactites creep
towards stalagmites
dreaming
of columns

a universal sigh
you get
the picture

disoriented
drawn by desire
pips fall to the earth

was I gone too long
now forgotten …

I hurled myself
into an abyss
the universe
caught me
by the feet

have I lost my reach
can I still touch your senses?

tentatively
she lost herself
his eyes
smooth pebbles
whirlpooling

I catch my breath
hold it close a moment
and hurl it forth
watching seagulls fly
into the blue beyond

the promise of new love
beckoned
she hurled herself
into making art
instead

 

Smoke Rings

the singer’s voice
smoke and whiskey rich
sings about oppression

the guitarist’s fingers strum
salutations to the condors
tatooed on his chest

a chorus of three voices joins
dead friends immortalised
the singer lights a cigarette

inside his smoke rings
cochineal red betrayals
a requiem inside each circle

Catness X 3

stillness sighs
why why why
leaves start to gossip

____________________

water drips
from the inky sky
street lights leak onto the road
her tail a question
she meows at the door

_____________________

restless
a bell jingles
behind the curtains
I stare intently
into a cup of tea

 

Riffin’ on a thick description

Laptop open
he taps his phone
screen saver blinks
he strokes
a hollow surface

a slight
eye contraction
a twitch
or a wink
faked

plump words link
piling together
unpacking
a thick wink’s
knowing

blinking
he rubs
a fingertip
over the corner
of his eye

because
the person beside you
has no idea the words
on the screen
are from you

Riffin’ on a thick description is a homage to Clifford Geertz, an anthropologist who took the art and craft of writing observations very seriously.

Future Perfect on a Train

So still she sits – watery eyes
vanish into her screen,
her perfume conjures flowers
I’ve not yet seen
with shades of pastel pink and gold
with filigree edges
swirling in a vortex
chasing a future perfect time.

Underground,
in the loop
sound is magnified,
she speaks, sotto voce
as her thumb and forefinger
expand her screen.

Her face waxes stronger,
her brow smooths,
she taps screen letters into words,
her glistening red lips
slip into a parted smile
as she presses ‘send’.

Her words
slide into a void
of gone but not yet read.

Gaslights

An exclamation mark
between her eyebrows,
she asks him a question.

Gaslights sputter,
then glow brightly,
the room smells of rat.

She takes his rook with a look,
he caws like a self righteous bishop
in love with his mitre and robes.

He never cheats,
the gaslights dip.

A gold locket
floats in her palm,
she sees scales,
the gaslights go out.

 

 

Small Stones in early July

July 2

doggie needs to pee
the door creaks open
protesting the cold air
wafting as
the central heating
blasts warmth
on a cold winter’s
July night

July 4

I was on Facebook tonight and I saw a post from Yoko Ono’s page so I followed her link to a review about her book Acorns (http://www.vogue.com/culture/article/plant-a-seed-yoko-onos-acorn/#1). The article talks about the acorns she and John Lennon planted back in 1968 and their vision of living sculptures around the world of paired oak trees. There is an extract from her book in the article about listening to what other people are thinking  … nice playful irony I thought and so wabi sabi … it reminded me of the invisibility of listening, how I tried to understand this phenomenon over a decade ago through my doctoral dissertation and how I struggled to express my meandering thoughts through academic writing  … anyway her poem triggered a chain reaction in my brain. Below is my spontaneous play on her words.

Listen to the raging wind outside my door
Listen to the wind outside your window
Listen to the wind swirling from the sun
Listen to your climate system
Can you hear the turning of the ground …

July 5

my ear hairs bristle
biting wind blows through
southern cross glitter

July 8

steaming chicken soup
a balm for weary bones
chewy whole grain rice

sighs turn to comfort
spoon clinks an emptied bowl
ghosts leave haunted eyes

Universes

A flame flutters
as a hand passes,
forefinger and thumb
hold a universe,
red glows through eyelids,
the edges of the circle
now etched in crimson,
she catches words
floating with dusty motes,
and carefully
places them
in a jewel encrusted case
beside photographs
of ghosts …

A red shoe
lying on its side
protests and casts
a wondrous shadow
of another universe …

Cutout Whispers

whitesmoke vapours
slither from a silver exhaust

drifting crystals churn
to a distant wind chime tune

secret fireflies dance
in a maelstrom of moonrain

gardens sparkle in champagne
while rent ghosts roam
dazzled by periwinkles
fractured on bisque pots

cutout whisper motes
float in between
mint and lady bugs

 

 

 

An Exhalation

And so …  an exhalation,
almost a sigh, a silent sigh,
anticipated moments pass,
a mic stands in the centre
of the theatre in the round,
an invitation to exhale, express
words with air,
to splash words onto a screen
with fingers
into a stream with bodies here,
some bodies over there, somewhere,
seen, read out loud, performed by other
tongues and teeth, silently consumed
like little quail eggs rolling
in your mouth,
and yet
a question still remains,
a lingering afterthought,
what is the collective noun
for poets, after all?