EULOGY …

A humorous new poem, of sorts. Read it here.

 

 

SHE HAS BECOME THE OCEAN

I have     been dreaming

 

I have been     remembering

 

I have been dreaming

those dreams     of meaning

that come from the waters

of dreaming     deep

like drowned men

to the gold skin

of the ocean

 

I have been remembering

 

For there is more of water

in thought     and bend

than an arm     of the ocean

more     in thought     of one

than the whole of ocean

 

She has become the ocean

that edges every thing

her phantom as

the water

of viridian

 

She has become     the ocean

the folding over main

the universal water

     of viridian

 

                                                           

First published in Barnwood Magazine

 

 

THE MOSS WOMAN

I entering

our garden

of green

moss

saw

 

the woman

 

On broad

stone

reposing

 

She

rose

 

And falling

from

her arms

the dark moss

 

And beautiful

she moved

on

the grass

 

And soft-

ly she breathed

in

 

her tongue

of green

appearing

 

She

sang

to me

 

I am

so melancholy

 

Her song

was

such

as men

can not

recall

 

I can

not

recall

her song

 

It falls

as

moss

from her arm

 

The wind

lifts

 

It is gone

                                                                               

First published in Barnwood Magazine

FIVE NEW POEMS…

… and drawings. From my unpublished Gothic novel-in-poems, Mavor’s Bones. Observe them here.

 

 

 

 

SEPTEMBER’S WHEN

the poets grow

old

alter colour

and fall

 

thou mayest in me

 

Years

have I died my

grey

 

Please – re-

serve your sympathy for thieves

of beauty, whose

stealings stole backs

and plug stomachs

 

the green-

grocers, folders

of wheat

the clean cutters

of sheep

 

A minute

fills

with shovels

whales

of these

brittling thieves

 

Keep harvesting

 

                                                   

First published in Barnwood

 

THE MOSS WOMAN …

… and two other new poems, are now live at Barnwood Magazine. These are from my unpublished, Gothic novel-in-poems Mavor’s Bones.

 

 

BROTHER JOHN

I was born so, shadow-

less, living

the motley of cloth thought

man

by men

 

 

yet not myself

 

 

Dawn – olive

drab     I shambled

on tile

 

 

in glass, on crown

the edge

 

 

At the abbey

they greeted me

with stained hands

 

 

Now the days

are grape-taking, la-

bour

and song

raising wants

and voices in song

 

 

When they sing of god

I sing with them

unfirm

but listening, singing

 

 

Heaven brush us, dust

 

 

I think little

of my old life

 

 

For consolation, call

it dream

and half believe it

 

 

Brothers – but

they’d shrink

from one among them, un-

deceived

 

 

Buttoned, God, we’re one

 

 

Perhaps

they dwell themselves

restless, tilt-

ing sand

 

 

ink paths of sleep

at last

like me

 

 

and dream