Fleeing

Look! Look!
Can you see the image developing?
Move the paper back and forth in the tray

(torrential rain lashed blacked-out windows)

They just appeared out of nowhere running
But as quick as they came they were gone
Heads bent and leather clad arms flailing
Strange apparitions from some ancient dawn

always running, thorns scratching, taking cover
pursued, wet to shivering skin, ice cold to bone

Look! Look!
There, can you not see them?
Lean in closer to view the image more clearly

(loose glass rattled in wooden framed windows)

Perhaps they were fleeing to a safer morrow
Or moving from one dimension to the next
Stealthy warriors with quivers of arrows
More wraith-like ghosts than static objects

hurry now, more haste, the chase is quickening
the past is catching up with us, keep running

Look! Look!
Is the image now fading?
Peg up the photograph to hasten its drying

(the wind bickered outside of closed windows)

primitive to the eye, viewed through a lens
flesh gashed, captured in a blurred moment
persecuted ancestors branded as heathens
for crimes never committed, sadly lamented

quick, through here, a gap in the line of trees
a hole into the future, an escape route in time

Look! Look!
Have they all but disappeared?
The paper crumbles to dust on the floorboards

(thunderclaps rolled across rickety windows)

the past came to haunt us, the dead to remind
guilt for our misdeeds, taunts for our souls
those left in limbo spend their lives misaligned
swallowed by torment, down pitch-black holes

that was close, let’s rest here in this dark tunnel
but just for a moment, until we catch breath

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Mr Realisto

We see your pictures, the ones you post
in groups or themes like memory banks
the naked women with guns and dogs
erotic, quixotic, hypnotic, far fetched
the blow your brains out faked up gifs
the bra strap snapping tattooed breasts
and all the while you hide behind your
anonymous mask – a devil, a deviant
a twister of truths who tells it like it is
the way we see the world through a lens
one minute pukingly cute, the next
blood, guts, war and the birth of a child
forever questioning our resolve, our
whatever it is that feeds our curiosity
imaginations ripe as pomegranate flesh
in black and white, in colour, animated
we take it any which way with ease
with each question mark, rolling dice
our fingers manipulate and hover over
a woman with a freakishly forked tongue
a Turkish peasant banging a drum
a stoning, a kitten, a starving man and on
it’s endless and we can’t get enough
we can’t get enough, we can’t get
enough of this endless stuff.

 

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

 

The Keeper of Thoughts

so Bill

I was just wondering

when will you be done

taking your photographs

you were never this long

in the roll of film days

when you had a couple dozen shots

but now there’s no stopping you

 

my mother had always been

just wondering

patiently sat filing her nails

flicking through glossy magazines

Harpers and Queen

Vanity Fair

the breathtaking scenery

had never interested her

 

we’d drive out each weekend

take the Oldsmobile panting up

The Skyline Drive or

Blue Ridge Highway

there were swallowtails

and black bears

if you knew just where to look

and point your toy pistols

 

mother watched

from the passenger seat

window wound down

breeze blowing her mini beehive

the ten most alluring women

in the world

she would read out loud and

how to marry a billionaire Bill

 

poor father was a delivery man

never an ambitious bone

in his weary body

the long hours delivering parcels

exacted a price on his arthritis

but you would not hear him complain

just a few more minutes honey

he would quietly say

 

all those Kodachrome slides

he never showed or looked at them

they sat boxed

gathering dust

like his simple thoughts

over time he feared he would one day lose

our sunny days wandering Big Meadows

with mother in the car wondering

 

the names of our favorite places

still sing in my ears

they echo out from overlooks

call me back each year

to Riprap Trail

Hawksbill Gap

Elkwallow and

Bacon Hollow

 

now I am the keeper of his thoughts

unlocked and free to wander

projected overhead

we watch them on the big screen

there’s me I point

pistols at the ready

and mom smiling and waving

a cripple with withered legs

 

(apologies for posting this poem twice on the Daily Post one word prompt slot. My other blog is winding down now that I am coming to the end of my travels and I inadvertently added this to that although it does have relevance there too. Managing multiple WordPress blogs from a smartphone is not always without its glitches)