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

 

Untrammelled

“Once, twice, three times”
palpable glee in the auctioneer’s voice,
“are we done?”
a pause, even a beat,
you can hear people breathing, shuffling
“going, going …
SOLD to the lady in blue!”

And so a home stripped of intimacy,
styled into an invitation to dream
changes hands …

Your heart is racing,
tears of relief spring into your eyes,
a champagne cork pops,
the intoxicating scent of bubbles
tickle your nose,
a sip of frothy blue
and yellow visions
of playful waves and sand.

Now the house in P_____ St is no more,
the site’s completely cleared,
you wonder why you worked so hard
just before the keys were handed over
to leave no trace behind.

Horizons beckon untrammelled
from a new place
where it’s easy to breath.

 

 

 

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.

Morning commute

The coffee sits warm in my belly,
its taste lingers in my mouth;
the edge of my notebook
sharp in the crease of my left thumb,
my right thumb and forefinger
feel the cylindrical joint of hard and soft plastic
as ink flows smoothly between lines.

Too many words …
a sweet thought of decluttering,
a recorded voice announces the next station (not mine),
and sunlight covers my page.

Evening

the drone of the heating
mumbles “all’s well”
a mantra for peace

ghostly shadows
loom on the walls
sharp edges sleep

a line reaches
its mark on a gauge
the drone sighs into silence

it’s a windless night
a cat watches close
through the window

his book snaps shut
an incandescent glow
by a bed pops off

Mutant Thoughts

mutant thoughts
spawn

the air is dank
blood heat

tepid adjectives
hang
without
a subject …

the object sits
tongue hanging out
cooling the breath

the only action
while nothing fills
the spaces between
every thing
every cell

and there I shall
meet you.

and we shall be
one mutant thought …

Plenty more poetry over at dVersePoets 

Meeting

He prowls,
a restless tiger,
words cascade
as on a page projected
he draws his vision out
with a whiteboard marker;
committee columns
in a row to support
an executive portico,

I look at the form
and wonder
how it would function
as a starry constellation?

Stench

Nostril hairs rebelling
I cross the threshold
of  her house thinking
that compassion must
prevail over matter;
I must confess to a slight cheat,
cocktail of eucalyptus,
peppermint, citrus, melaleucca
oily underneath my nose,
aromatherapy for my soul,
yet waves of death, cat
and dog piss and shit
and piles of nonspecific mess
assault my complete sensorium,
“don’t forget to breathe
or you’ll be giddy,”
I whisper to myself.

I brave the kitchen first,
she says she wants
the cupboard doors wiped
clean, I wander through
a swamp of empty food tins,
food scraps, dirty plates
knives and forks,
damp yellowed newspaper;
I spy a mouse long mummified,
the window’s covered in greasy paper
cobwebs festoon the frame,
with spiders fiercely black
abdomens thumbnail size
begin to run disturbed
as I begin to sweep
to let the daylight in …
and tell her that it will be fine,
together we will get there…
and I try not to hold my breath …

Erasure

Shadows crawl creep across
a timber wooden ground

a sprinkling of dust

mingles consorts with
ancient solar light

a reedy insistent critic
screams drones in ostinato,

“sweeping is a virtue”

defiantly
I open fling the window wider,
curtains surf the windy swell

erasing scrubbing out the voice nag
with a millet broom – it has red and yellow
threads strings holding binding  it together…

now, the mottled light slides
across a timber mirror floor

the sundial of a pleasant day
meets the golden hour

when I set off into the mellowness outside
to shoot paint poems
with images that move

the carping voice
is silent still…