muy bien

I tear the photographs of me into tiny pieces
sort them into colours black and white
brown and blue, green and red and orange
faded like an almost forgotten Majorcan sunset
where we went to forget about Dad
and turn our lives into something new
I wasn’t quite sure what to do
I was only a kid

I glue the pieces of photographs on large sheets
of snowy white paper that is rough to the touch
freshly fallen with no trace of footsteps
as all childhoods should remain
but we know that’s not possible
the pieces are jumbled now
I make them into different shapes
that resemble landscapes

And I am there if you look closely
amongst the rolling hills and fields
a lost boy peeking out from behind trees
you see me waving from inside a cloud
no  angel am I
only torn pieces of photographs
thrown to the wind and scattered
confetti memories strewn

Mên-an-Tol

walking the same landscape our ancestors shaped
under the same sullen skies and windswept clouds
great granite boulders hold the hills in a delicate balance
but what now are visible were once woodland cloaked
oh how this has changed yet in some ways not
the streams and drovers’ tracks run a little deeper, yes
worn and rutted by water, wheels, hooves and feet
the trees are gone, replaced by thick stone walls
and farmhouses with solid chimneys blend themselves neatly in
as if hewn from the rock during some dark night storm
this land has stood witness to many such beatings
as wave after wave of cliff batterings took their toll
the gorse bushes bent double like old men in Sou’westers
but it was underground that men also ventured
picking away at the rich seams of tin
that would kill more than would make wealthy
we traipse across a boggy field to Mên-an-Tol
where thrice through the hole will cure your ills
or so the stories go

The Mên-an-Tol standing stones near Madron in Cornwall with the Ding Dong tin mine in the distance.

north (sons and daughters)

we travelled south
east and west
each taking a bone
to plant and tend
we grew great forests
gave them names
like laughter, love
tundra, teal

there were swans and lakes
hills and streams
swallows flew
dreams took place

and then one summer
years from then
I caught my breath
inhaled again
and there before me
on the shore
a skiff, a whale boat
nothing more

yellow lines

selfportrait

I
look out
and try to find
blue and crimson skies
where birds fly from the corners of my eyes
and a copse of trees on a wilderness road
is a little piece of England in Wyoming
where the shadows breathe life into the rocks
and the wolf within me sniffs the summer air

I am
alone and I am
a traveller and I am here and now
in no other time or dimension or space
there are pieces of broken seashells in my pocket
the sharp edges a reminder of sand between my toes
my burnt shoulders a reminder of childhood
when I walked these shores without a care
doing what children ought to do in silence

I understand
the importance of being alive
although I cannot comprehend the meaning of it
the days are numbered with my personal DNA sequence
another unfathomable equation that directs me
and sends me spinning through these landscapes
like an out of control meteorite on a collision course
that urges me to bend down and pick at the desert gravel
to find the piece that fits snugly in my mind

I
of course I can
it’s as easy as buying a ticket and jumping on a plane
there’s no glue to bind me like gravity to this planet
I can come and go as I please and take my leave
wave to you from afar or hold you near
my reason is to journey and never arrive
the call of the wild lulls me to sleep
and in your arms I slumber peacefully

Lament

your voice, your voice, came whispering
through the white waving heads of the cow parsley
it echoed down the sunken lanes of this fair county
from my memory to the inside of yours
a story of imprinted landscapes laid bare

your touch, your touch, once brushed
the flushed cheeks of wild red campion petals
an innocent at dawn with caressing fingertips
easing the milk from creamy white teats
tired head rested on the beast’s beating flank

your face, your face, youthfully reflected
in the yellow sun of a still buttercup morning
held up to the chin of childhoods lost and buried
where promises once held future’s sway
and a fragile breath grasped at something better

your heart, your heart, modestly imperfect
left bleeding amongst the purple honesty day
fortune’s name carved on an unmarked grave
a beggar girl sent on a wishful errand
cast adrift on ploughed and muddied fields

your song, your song, hummed to another
that chimed with the bluebell hymn of spring
would that you could ever be his lover
and that he would taste your sweet words
on the lips of an eternal starlit night

InstaPoem – a silent contemplative walk through a Welsh village landscape.

I gallop like a horse
an odd sight I will admit
but the winter sun has warmed my spiritspast teasel heads and the old gate post
blue sky light
red dogwood stems all of a tanglethe winter garden rests
five tall poplars wear ivy leggings
green arrows point me south by southeast
to copper islands mapped out in lichens
where fungi sprouts from torn silage bail holesI come across a sheep stuck in wire fencing
released and thankful it contemplates me
but an empty belly needs fillingby the road some broken pink rubble
and graffiti in a bus shelter
taking care on the steep descent to the village below

there is an upturned table in a front garden which makes for a sorry sight
as is this home wind power system
but the guardian at the door sits proud and alert

some other words catch in my mane like drops of dew
Doombar and Pint
Grit and Salt
Sunday and Carvery

the crossing by the school not in use
I wave to Santa waiting patiently down an alley
run my finger over carved inscriptions on tarred poles

a familiar shadow greets me on the memorial
as my imaginary horse gallops off down the old railway tracks
frightened I think of the coming water jump

and on to this field for budding heroes
or a blackbird cautiously walking the line
rolling without steam

the people of the world communicate their anger and frustration
with love it seems
on public surfaces

I hear the silent crack of a branch breaking in a storm
water flowing under an arch of trees
I open the gate here -> but the directions are just a joke

here the dead miners sleep under coal black headstones
their old terrace houses have coal bunkers and outside toilets
my illusions momentarily shattered for no reason

tractor tracks cross my narrow path
what I would give to unpadlock these blue doors and rummage inside
a red gate beckons its owner

no more will the bell toll for the village
expanding red foam fungus escapes from a builder’s yard mess
carry me across the crumbling river bridge before we both break with age

peep as we go through verdigris rust holes
down railway line supports
and on festive peeling paint colours

galloping now the last stretch
a pleasant view some might think
like this starling in high wire silhouette
I come home to a sheepish welcome party

 

landscapes II

what do you see in your landscape?
under the browns and greens and
brick and stone?
the people mining?
the underwater rivers carrying off the dead?
tunnels, caverns?
echoing chambers?
choirs of burrowing worms
clambering and clawing between the rocks
and soil?

it’s dark isn’t it?

rain trickles down through the cracks
forming invisible waterfalls
some as thin as threads of mycorrhizal fungi
others mighty as volcanic vents
and voices from the floating dead
they pass through this subterranean world
without a care it seems
for the light has been extinquished from their eyes
the sun exhausted
demons and gods quelled in the name of death
coal face and pick axe
pit props and shaft air
warm like exhaled breath
and then

they are no more
and this is no more

and we are gone
called for
ushered on to a new beginning
somewhere bright where fake angels sing
or somewhere warm and comforting
where we can be free
and the conversation is carried on

 

(in the light of day I decided to edit – a little)

landscapes

what do you see in your landscape?
under the browns and greens and
brick and stone?
the people mining?
the underwater rivers carrying the dead?
tunnels, caverns, echoing chambers?
choirs of burrowing worms
clambering and clawing between the rocks
and soil?
dark isn’t it?
rain trickles down through the cracks
forming invisible waterfalls
some as thin as threads of silk
others mighty as volcanic vents
and voices from the floating dead
they pass through this subterranean world
without a care it seems
for the light has been exhausted from their eyes
the sun eternally extinquished
demons and gods quelled in the name of death
coal face pick axe pit prop
the shaft air warm like an exhaled breath
and then they are no more
this is no more
we are gone
called for
ushered to a new beginning
somewhere bright where angels sing
somewhere warm and comforting
somewhere we can be free
and the conversation is carried on

 
https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/legend/