Thursday, 20 April 2017

Day Twenty

Allow the pieces
to fall into place
a good shake
to tame and take
it all in its turn
as patterns appear
from under the dome
you're off, dip toes
in multiple meanings
lashed into form
from adjoining turmoil
to the left, right
up or down
forget the score
be boggled by
these ordered, woven words

Tuesday, 18 April 2017

Day Seventeen

Ever in the long dark,

Cloud blanket filtered,

Refined through separation,

Silver light on knowing repose.

Monday, 17 April 2017

Day Sixteen


I am writing to satisfy a need in me to hold on to something of you. Furthermore, I'm obliged to declare that despite all attempts to return our exchanges, they endure. They remain.

Your letters are stubbornly fireproof. The paper is permanent. The ink is resistant to nails and saltwater. Every day is an exercise in disregarding some peerless idiom.

This is nigh on harassment. To be beset by these mountains of envelopes, blackening the sky, churning out language like fumes that make the head swim - it's obscene. It's perfect.

I can sit for hours watching the words fall out. One day might bring an avalanche. The next, one single word might just roll up, soft and earnest, and cause the sky to wreck itself.

I refer you, for no reason, to the day you said you loved me. It was a correspondence I'd been dumb enough to hope for. My fingers on each letter, a flurry of tumbling heartbeats. I thought it sincere, and I was ever yours.

Sunday, 16 April 2017

Day Fifteen

The meaningful
is not just the enjoyable

It's wilderness swimming. It's harder
to breathe with the pressure
on your lungs and a current
resistant to labouring limbs

Keep watch for whirlpools
as they're watching you
Eyes armed and dangerous
Ever they collude to bring you low

Be mindful of the dispirited
essence of life beneath a parasol
Where the umbra drips, drips
to the sound of others being merry

Life's a beach
Did you expect plain sailing?

Friday, 14 April 2017

Day Fourteen

Edward the Confessor
Neglected to name a successor
With Saxons promptly torn asunder
He must surely confess to a royal blunder

Thursday, 13 April 2017

Day Twelve

I have always liked listening
to the languid and the level.

I have always perceived the precision
to be perfectly pleasing.

But I've got to grin
at attaining goals by gasping.

Day Eleven

Various times in life I have perceived
distance as crucial and inconsequential.
I have loved fiercely in hinterlands
And taken umbrage into a bear hug
But the purlieu of myself, I think,
Was lost to a great many some time ago.

I never had the tools to make us a home.

I cannot be content in a moment;
It's not an airlock, corked from time and distance.
I cannot pitch a wheel and eject myself
From my element. I could founder in deep water
Or be happily cast away. Then either could follow
And either follow that. I once fancied myself safe and sound.
I had time. I was a good distance from the storm
But it had, in truth, been forecast

And I never had the tools to make us a home.

I lost the plot. A great many, in fact.
Now I whittle away the days making tools
Let the houses take care of themselves
And I dare not attend to how high they're built
Or just how long they'll stand. 
I just gotta keep working away

Or I'll never have the tools to make us a home.

Day Twenty Allow the pieces to fall into place a good shake to tame and take it all in its turn as patterns appear from under the ...