one last pebble,
if I'm lucky
there will be a quartz vein
and the pool
is dark, is deep
the splash, the ripples,
wait
but it is warm
in my pocket
and there is more
to say
so the pebble
wears smooth,
slowly
on lint
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
bed head
last summer's cock-comb glory
- ochre spikes,
husked flowers, dried
- their chimes now
only paper thin whispers
held in virgin white
but this Winter Queen
seeks no groom
- ochre spikes,
husked flowers, dried
- their chimes now
only paper thin whispers
held in virgin white
but this Winter Queen
seeks no groom
old shed
sag-boarded,spindle beamed,
bowing beneath the weight
of snow's cap
having lost its bark
to the dogs of winter,
the shed
is naked to the frost
bowing beneath the weight
of snow's cap
having lost its bark
to the dogs of winter,
the shed
is naked to the frost
nest
twigs thatched,
a perch bleak
a snag of cloth
from a tattered somewhere
a spit of mud
and three feathers,
two lost, one found
and high in the tree,
waving in winter's maw,
it waits
for spring's tenants
a perch bleak
a snag of cloth
from a tattered somewhere
a spit of mud
and three feathers,
two lost, one found
and high in the tree,
waving in winter's maw,
it waits
for spring's tenants
fine snow
sky mist, ephemeral
- filling the blocks
of footprints
mortal transience
has stepped this way,
socked it with shadows
sky mist, ephemeral
- and the prints
are gone
- filling the blocks
of footprints
mortal transience
has stepped this way,
socked it with shadows
sky mist, ephemeral
- and the prints
are gone
Saturday, January 29, 2011
head of steam
a scoop on a stick,
gloved hands, thick coat
and a great head of steam
but I am no railway,
simply the un-stoker
of snow on a deck
gloved hands, thick coat
and a great head of steam
but I am no railway,
simply the un-stoker
of snow on a deck
winter stream
there is a stream
flushing the hillside
the salt, the grey-brown
vomit of winter spurned
by traffic
and municipal sand
it hides
beneath the arched cap,
a vaulted snow
secret
for a while
flushing the hillside
the salt, the grey-brown
vomit of winter spurned
by traffic
and municipal sand
it hides
beneath the arched cap,
a vaulted snow
secret
for a while
Freeze!
hours spent in the crawl space
chasing thickened water
through black plastic pipes
with a hair dryer
nothing quite like
the run of clear liquid
unfrozen
but what
do watching spiders think?
chasing thickened water
through black plastic pipes
with a hair dryer
nothing quite like
the run of clear liquid
unfrozen
but what
do watching spiders think?
far sounds
a thing of plastic
filled with magnets
and radio,
electronics
and my Mum's voice
miracles all
filled with magnets
and radio,
electronics
and my Mum's voice
miracles all
I saw ...
grass greened in hope,
bunched beneath the wait
of winter
bunched beneath the wait
of winter
Monday, January 24, 2011
skin
chill
in the air
but the crystals
are beneath
the layers,
hidden
you will
unwrap them
inside, afterwards,
melting the prickle
points of tingles
back to
skin
in the air
but the crystals
are beneath
the layers,
hidden
you will
unwrap them
inside, afterwards,
melting the prickle
points of tingles
back to
skin
Sunday, January 23, 2011
destiny
they are jumbled,
this stack -
oak, basswood,
beech, pine,
the white-blonde curls
of the birch
thawing over a vent
grateful
for the warmth
oh,
if only
they knew ...
this stack -
oak, basswood,
beech, pine,
the white-blonde curls
of the birch
thawing over a vent
grateful
for the warmth
oh,
if only
they knew ...
what is ... and is not
paper, screen
it is all
sans something
ink, words
flat, untextured
blemishes and excuses
for lack
of my definition
the eye
does not
see it all
it is all
sans something
ink, words
flat, untextured
blemishes and excuses
for lack
of my definition
the eye
does not
see it all
held
their fall frozen,
icicles
wait
as if
they
had
for
gotten
some
thing
icicles
wait
as if
they
had
for
gotten
some
thing
Thursday, January 20, 2011
got it covered?
mittens too big
for possible hands,
the feminine coat marches
up the hill, through the snow
wonder if its owner
knows?
for possible hands,
the feminine coat marches
up the hill, through the snow
wonder if its owner
knows?
winter moon
the moon was high, watching
hatted with light
and a
s
c
a
r
f
that
dangled
hatted with light
and a
s
c
a
r
f
that
dangled
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
news from the sky
they are flake whispers
from places, times
events washed, evaporated
maybe even dashed
and some
are heavier
than they look
from places, times
events washed, evaporated
maybe even dashed
and some
are heavier
than they look
Monday, January 17, 2011
four finches
a mayhem of calls,
a madness of shred,
a scatter of husk
and four finches
who will not
tidy their room
a madness of shred,
a scatter of husk
and four finches
who will not
tidy their room
Village hill
a tyred labour,
seasonal rubber
from warmer places
there may be a key,
but not to this door
seasonal rubber
from warmer places
there may be a key,
but not to this door
winter's coat
it is a veneer,
a breath
of chill,
worn like skin
this cold
a breath
of chill,
worn like skin
this cold
Friday, January 14, 2011
bottoms up
a mug , 'Jersey'
from a son on his travels,
coffee, Colombian
ground, glowing
brown
and I
wistful, wondering
if I am
or if I'm not,
here or there,
or now and then
and what and why and how
and the answer is never
in the bottom of this cup
but maybe the next
from a son on his travels,
coffee, Colombian
ground, glowing
brown
and I
wistful, wondering
if I am
or if I'm not,
here or there,
or now and then
and what and why and how
and the answer is never
in the bottom of this cup
but maybe the next
Thursday, January 13, 2011
shelves
bowed beneath the weight of words
books - read, unread
authors - dead, undead
and I am sharpening my brain
as if it was some fine pencil
aspiring to write
something hopefully
not too
leaden
books - read, unread
authors - dead, undead
and I am sharpening my brain
as if it was some fine pencil
aspiring to write
something hopefully
not too
leaden
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
tracking winter
there are tracks, punched
through the crust of rime
paws, pads, hooves
I can measure the width,
the stride
estimate the degree
of the trespass
wonder at the bulk and the size,
the why of a leg
dragged here
and there
the empty, barren yard
in the howl
of winter
is not
through the crust of rime
paws, pads, hooves
I can measure the width,
the stride
estimate the degree
of the trespass
wonder at the bulk and the size,
the why of a leg
dragged here
and there
the empty, barren yard
in the howl
of winter
is not
Night logic
if you drop a pebble into the middle
of a pond
you do not wonder
if anyone hears
if you drop a pond into the middle
of a pebble
you don't wonder
if you're dreaming
of a pond
you do not wonder
if anyone hears
if you drop a pond into the middle
of a pebble
you don't wonder
if you're dreaming
Bird's high view
It is a stark crucifix
in an ice blue sky
sliding the heavens
on the crank
of winter's wing
in an ice blue sky
sliding the heavens
on the crank
of winter's wing
Sunday, January 9, 2011
paperback hero
he slaughters weasels and orcs
along with Toad and Frodo,
he will tread
the heaving mists
that guard the fetid damp
clinging to the dragon's jewels
he knows the intimacy
of buckling a leather belt,
the swing of honed steel,
and the poor shelter
of a shield in the wall
and he can feel the pride
that comes
with standing at the crest
holding a blood spattered standard
while wearing the gore
of the vanquished
he does not herald
his accomplishments
nor feel the cut of pain
until he must put the book down
and wash the dishes
before the suds are cold
and curses at the prick
of a hidden blade
along with Toad and Frodo,
he will tread
the heaving mists
that guard the fetid damp
clinging to the dragon's jewels
he knows the intimacy
of buckling a leather belt,
the swing of honed steel,
and the poor shelter
of a shield in the wall
and he can feel the pride
that comes
with standing at the crest
holding a blood spattered standard
while wearing the gore
of the vanquished
he does not herald
his accomplishments
nor feel the cut of pain
until he must put the book down
and wash the dishes
before the suds are cold
and curses at the prick
of a hidden blade
Saturday, January 8, 2011
on the gate
there is smoke
in the air,
dirt in my veins
and the rev
of the bikes,
hunched on the gate
peaks
with my heart
the gate drops
and my hand twists,
i breathe
and wish this was more
than tv
in the air,
dirt in my veins
and the rev
of the bikes,
hunched on the gate
peaks
with my heart
the gate drops
and my hand twists,
i breathe
and wish this was more
than tv
Friday, January 7, 2011
the blaze of old summers
birch, shedding pages
of its summer, curls bright
blazes quick
while beech, smooth skinned,
unruffled
charms you with a slow
smoulder,
adds a layer of guilt
to the warmth
stubborn oak,
holding on
to its secrets
until
roaring, it spills
the rage of summers
of its summer, curls bright
blazes quick
while beech, smooth skinned,
unruffled
charms you with a slow
smoulder,
adds a layer of guilt
to the warmth
stubborn oak,
holding on
to its secrets
until
roaring, it spills
the rage of summers
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Gulp
It is honed, polished
my eyes are dotted
and my tea is cold
I fear that I left
far too much man
and you
out of the script
and the plot ...
well, we'll not talk about that
I had one once,
somewhere
swallowed with a gulp
when the agent asked
for the whole
but it is gone, sent
a press of a key
and the watch of a bar
crawling across the screen
damn, but I need a drink
and the Darjeeling
is not going to quite
hit the spot
my eyes are dotted
and my tea is cold
I fear that I left
far too much man
and you
out of the script
and the plot ...
well, we'll not talk about that
I had one once,
somewhere
swallowed with a gulp
when the agent asked
for the whole
but it is gone, sent
a press of a key
and the watch of a bar
crawling across the screen
damn, but I need a drink
and the Darjeeling
is not going to quite
hit the spot
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Lonely pup
there are only
one set of prints
in the snow
she does not look back
to where the second
used to pad
there is a dull ache
in that crisp definition
she would rather
not see
one set of prints
in the snow
she does not look back
to where the second
used to pad
there is a dull ache
in that crisp definition
she would rather
not see
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Wasn't it a Wednesday?
it's kind of flaky,
this stack of days
wintered, squalled
iced, baked, then iced
again
drifting into the bank
of memory
where time's erosion
may white it out
this stack of days
wintered, squalled
iced, baked, then iced
again
drifting into the bank
of memory
where time's erosion
may white it out
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