Wednesday, 28 December 2011

Stitches

''And in the morning it rained.''

''...she was so beautifully out of contact.''

Blood red, her eyes latch on to you.

''tinged with repulsion, amounting almost to love.''

Though they never knew you moved, they knew you were there.

''Her limbs had a certain stillness.''

It's windy out there, isn't it?

And she knew that no one cared.



Tuesday, 27 December 2011

Witches

They danced a thousand songs
and they never did no wrong.

Dance with me, dear witches.

Burning through my soul.
Voices whisper gently..
He's craving for your breath
Voices whisper gently
It's you he will undress

And he whispers,
with a softened, golden glow
The witches, are tearing at my clothes.

Dancing with the witches.

Temporary blisters,
burrowed in your skin.
Careful, say the witches,
Time is wearing thin.


Friday, 9 December 2011

Tree Man

Aware of my presence,
Breath and feeling.

By my window he is a comfort to me
most nights and mornings,
He is still and silent.
Other times the wind stirs his movements and he moves with the flow,
sometimes violently,
other times subtle and soft.

He breathes, as I breathe
with the wind and the birds.

A vital presence in the remoteness of silence.

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

A poem to say Good-Morning

''What says the sun when he first pours
His light thro' yielding eastern doors?
He says, says he: ''Good-morning, all!
Good-morning, flocks and herds,
Good-morning, too, my dears, to you,
Delightful little birds;
Good-morning, meadow, wood, and hill,
Good-morning, stream and flower,
Good-morning, earth, for all you're
worth,
Good-morning, roof and tower.''
What says the Sun when up he climbs
And hears the cock-crow and the chimes?
He says: ''All hail, dear Brother Man,
Good-morning, sir and madam;
My love to all, good luck befall
The babes of Eve and Adam;
Good-morning, friend, good-morning,
foe,
Good-morning, rich and poor;
Take up your load and seek the road
To heaven's shining door.''
What says, at eventide, the Sun?
Either ''Alas!'' or else ''Well done!''

Harold Begbie

Friday, 4 November 2011

Birds

Like a bird that flies,
but never wanders far..
my soul it breathes,
and is as silent as you are




Friday, 7 October 2011

Hue of crimson

I see the Devil in his big black sheath.

A ''hue of crimson'' bleeds across his eyes.

''...on a rug, under a tree''

that's where we'll meet.

''...and wild creatures danced passed at once'', in ''walts of music.''

''She could fly into a passion without making a noise.''

soft, strange, little notes..

''...pleasure began to crowd her anger out of her mind...and she always ''privately believed..''

that one day, she would meet the Devil in his big black sheath, hidden in the silence of the moor, as ''hues of crimson'' bleed across her eyes.

Wednesday, 31 August 2011

Roses in the Garden

Unfurl thy limbs child
you are to be a flower - bloom.

''...out there things will be stirrin' down below in the dark.''

''Are there ever any Roses?''

''Everything was strange and silent, and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from anyone, but somehow she did not feel lonely at all.''

''Even if the Roses are dead, there are other things alive.''

''...and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in, no one knew where she was.''

''What happened to the Roses?''