your name and mine

the storm last night blew
the last remaining heart-shaped leaves
from the poplar trees
and swirled them through my darkest dreams
in which your knuckles rapped upon my eyelids
in which you called from beyond the clouds
my name and your name

and with growing intensity
every last remaining rusting roofing nail
that keeps my house from blowing asunder
jiggled like loose teeth in a crowded coffin box
on which your fingers had once released
the suffocating soil to bury my voice
from that day forth

oh that I would recognise you now
with your hair tangled in windblown knots
and your limbs akimbo amongst the fallen branches
strewn upon the orchard grass
where leaves lie rotting and colour is drained
from cheeks that once were apple flushed
with your lover’s kisses

you are but the ambient past to me
pliant and fluid with a light that glimmers
not guiding or warning or even moving
but still as a mirror on an oaken table
your calfskin gloves neatly folded
heart-shaped leaves from the poplar trees
pressed between the pages of your journal

all substance turned to dust that blows
on the opening of the crackling memory
you offered me no more than you could
the leaf held to the moonlight reveals its veins
as if the blood has been preternaturally drained
and I am left with only an echo
of your name and mine

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what shall I write you on this maudlin morning

what shall I write you on this maudlin morning
that peers between clouds over the hillside

what shall I tell you that you haven’t already heard
what truths and lies that hide behind my words

what shall I keep from you in future safe storage
those little white lies we disguise behind our eyes

what shall you take from me and what will I give
this moment or that or the past so recently forgot

what shall the day bring if nothing’s worth repeating
more clouds, more rain, more words, more sighs

what shall I write you on this maudlin morning
that pours between us like an ocean divide

glassbox eyrie

in your glassbox eyrie we lay on cloudpillows
and dreamed of poetry and pictures

down below the flotsam flowed
and scum collected in off-white corners

up here where the swans flew with outstretched necks
the sounds of the streets could not be heard

like the silence that snow brings, you said
or the quiet at 4am

when all the clutter has been swept away
and the albino creatures come out to play

is there a point to all this hiding away, I asked
the foreverdreaming and the cloud painting?

but you were gone in a feather
blown on a breeze of your own making

drifting to your next glassbox eyrie
to lie on cloudpillows and dream of poetry and pictures

tracing footsteps

arriving Gare du Nord
and stepping out into
the late afternoon rush hour
there is rain on the pavements
and puddles in the gutters
motorbikes lean in patient lines
clouds gather in strips of sky

as we look up
and as we walk along
Rue la Fayette
the air is heavy
it feels toxic
with promises

Metro station Poissonnière
café – bar – tabac – brasserie
Metro station Cadet
turn right and right again

our heartbeats echo sirens
our tongues are tied
in tired throats
we want to roll the names
between our lips
like French kisses
but we are parched

when we arrive
at the Hotel Strassbourg
Rue de Montholon
leaning out on the balcony
smoking Gauloises Disque Bleu
every bit the Parisians

my belle de jour
my plus belle de nuit

as the night falls on the day
we join the crowds in Pigalle
sex shops and harlots hussle
we hold hands and smile
ce soir mon amour
I whisper in your ear

and tomorrow Père Lachaise
because you want to leave
a cigarette for Jim Morrison
and say bonjour to Proust
and non je ne regrette rien
to Édith Piaf and Oscar Wilde

and the day after that
the corridors of the Louvre
with Turkish Bathers for me
and Liberty Leading the People
for you before

we arrive at our conclusion
under a brightening blue
September brilliance
not quite Yves Klein
more Pompidou pipes
or Monet at Giverny

let’s stay here forever you say
or until the money runs out I reply
but the Gard du Nord beckons
and the ferry will take us home
from this fantasy

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The Postcard Poet

I recently started a little side project using my travel and hiking photos. You can find them on Facebook and Twitter and occasionally here. Links below. Hope you like:

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Twitter: @ThePostcardPoet

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/postcardpoet/

that time of year again

it’s that time of year again
when days draw dark curtain evenings
shorter than the nights are long
and words begin to fail me

as does the light from a depleted sun
that barely scratches holes in the clouds
or penetrates my goose pimpled skin
held together with cold reluctance

the birds seem happy enough
I keep them well fed with encouragement
their songs and chatterings valued
more than they could ever know

but still the words fail me
and with it my engagement with the world
easier to huddle down and retreat
when it’s that time of year again

“nutmeg”

“nutmeg” he                shouted
“nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutmeg”

there was no answer……………
so he called “nutmeg”    again

“nutmeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeg”
but  he couldnot     remember

why?     why was he calling  ?
why was he sat  on a bench  ?

surrounded by   greenhedges
feet shuffling on    greygravel

the clouds  dishevelled  above
the ground     opening   below

his brain a maze of  pathways
deadend doormats untrodden

he called again……………………..
was swallowed……………………..

high velocity v.1.

losing sight of you

the smell of your skin

the sound of your voice

 

walking on out

 

eyeline tilted horizon

one way test ticket

centrifugal pilot

 

staring about

 

nose cone

stripping the ozone

frosted in glass pain

 

blinking doubt

 

returning to leave

chemtrail blood trickle

waysigned signal

 

singles him out

 

cracked fuselage

flesh and bone metal

caged in oxygen mask

 

freaking out

 

out of reach panic button

communications breakdown

ether bound definitions

 

drifting without

 

switched off to silence

lolling head

delirious

 

total blackout

 

sustained g-force

loss of judgement

visual impairment

 

over and out
_
_
_
_
_
and further still

cast out into oblivion

banned from this dominion

 

finding you in a parachuting dream

disintegrating into your cloud wings

precipitated onwards

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