Cenotaph of my loathe-quarry
lurks in the corner
ominous obelisk of misery-grey fabric
stained by stagnant-self
arms grubbier than a plagiarist in an inkwell.
It haunts my body
memory-foam cushions twisted
around my depression
like an alligator in death-roll.
If perching, it’s only for seconds
dread at comfort swallowing me whole
or falling over the feet clumsily
delivering self-recrimination
that plunges me into that dark brutal chasm
- again.
The armchair is a sound-hollow
negative echoes only
so I stay silent near its plinth
⁃ yet sometimes the pride in victory
my eyes hold
is loud enough to drown
past despair.
life
An Affair of Pipistrelles
Shrouded in the half-light
of a crow-dusk sky and ruby streetlamp blur
I observe hidden lovers
tango in mid-air
wings outstretched ready to hold the earth
in their lust-love
time is stolen by the passion of the near-night
and silent melody of the harp-moon
until the crackle of burnt leaf-beacons
warns of a stoat’s prying eyes
endangered by discovery
the paramours bow into the shadows
leaving only the gentlest echo of their romance
to the dark.
Midnight Pillow
Folded in the nape of the moon
I stand between time
wingspread arms caught
between yesterday
and
tomorrow.
Doubt subsides
like starlight from distant cosmos
a supernova of anticipation explodes
all in the space
of a stuck second.
I fly too close to the Earth
planetary mass gravity
I crash
a ribboned comet’s tail
⁃ clock hand my nemesis.
Community Orchard Picking Party
pears are dangling
silvery earthen-green earrings
inviting to be removed from leafed ears
some have rotted in the intensity of the sun
sheen dulled to clay rust
damson plums nestle into branches
like amethyst hiding in rock
only smoothed
precious stone fruit hiding
emerald green flesh
braeburns have fallen
comfortable in the flame-kissed leaf beds
and honey golden late summer grasses
orbs of sweet promise
the kids are dressed as pirates
wandering with small baskets
ripe with wonder
they gather their treasures
before a couple of cavaliers
spoil their bounty.
Carnivale
rum-wide spacehopper eyes
staring up at midnight Malagan sky
discoball stars glistening
like a dancers skin
my bloodstream inferno
ready to set my beachgrass bed ablaze
voiceless flame amidst the pulse of revelry
the forest of ravers surrounding
will welcome the fire
I raise myself
but remember my legs are lost
to strong liquor and fatigue
stumbling into a dance
floating on the breeze of second wind
rotor blade arms almost take me away
and what goes up
must come down
I’m laughing at myself
backing track of Faithless
and howls and cheers
when I wake
I want this feeling to be my cure
my comfort
my soul.
Grains of Memory
Your table is a real table
sliced oak and oil-dressed
uneven surface like the road leaving the village
grains swollen from drowning emotions
- and spilled cups of tea
so many hands have smoothed it
over so many years
some anxious
some happy
- all loved
a few splinters are bulging from the corners
each a memory
some good
some bad
some probably just about the times the ashtray was missed
and maybe one where the beer bottle exploded
resting like a stained glass window
- the table ready to hear pre-night-out confessions
if it could talk
how many stories could it tell
- too many to worry about
next time we’re around it
we should give thanks
drift palms gently over the lines
a loose embrace
that clings tightly to the seams
- like the roots of our friendship.
Ryūjin
devour the sand
plunder every grain
horde them in your golden keep
conquer this land fleetingly
– rise triumphant
spread your scales of quicksilver
under the feathered winter sun
retreating only
– at the moon’s blunt counsel.
This poem was created in response to the Imagist Poet Hilda Doolittle’s poem Oread as part of TopTweetTuesday on X/Twitter.
Tribute
Helios had painted the sky
that night – lipstick pink –
his chariot pulled the heart-crimson sun
lingering for moments
while I enjoyed sips of retsina
I wondered if he was trying to emasculate
all those below
because how can mortals compete with gods –
when it comes to creating special moments
like that first dinner of a honeymoon
but I was caught between the earth of your eyes
and the horizon, colour of romance
and realised it was a tribute to you
to us
to our love.
It Was A Thursday
we drank stout
sombre colour of our suits
and heavy like the occasion
her fingers tapped the time-worn bar
– same wood as the coffin –
a subconscious morse code
trying to reach Elysium
an intimate farewell
sealed with frail teardrop
kisses.
If Men Were Gods
If the 200-yard walk while drinking tea was a sport
you would have been a world champion
I’ve never known a man since
who could time his brew from doorstep to doorstep
without spilling a drop
without breaking their mug
even better was your ability to puff a smoke
and stop for craic with folk you liked
between our streets
your soundtrack was eclectic
Elton to Abba
Hot Chocolate to Jimmy Nail
which I want to thank you for
because it rubbed off on me
I’ll always be envious of your moustache
because it made the smile on your face
all the more rich
but I don’t envy the shellsuits you liked
or some of the neon vests
Cantona once said
“I think I have a sense of mischief and that I can laugh at myself.”
he could’ve been quoting you
because your humour was only second
to your loyalty
You taught me so much
yet I’ve still got lots to learn
but I’ll do it with a glint in my eye
and a smile on my face
the way you would.
This poem is dedicated to my late, great Uncle Ray.
Paul Writes Poems 