I remember once, 

counting the loops on fingertips, discovering

they were as infinite as the stars.

I remember falling asleep 

in lemon scented bedsheets

still hanging

on my mother’s line.

I remember asking,

what will become of me?

Beneath the aged summer sun

I remember,

lips press tightly where they shouldn’t be,

warmed by more than the heat of July,

rush of guilt mixed with desire,

caffled by smell of mown grass,

our own egos emaciated.

What becomes of me?

My hand, presses against the frozen pain

looking out at you looking in,

further away in grief

back turned

I wash my own lemon scented sheets

behind hooded eyes

of age.

I saw a man today,
crepe paper skinned
encased in an ancient armchair.
Twinkle in his eye,
from his lips came a century’s
memories in a blink of an eye.

His nurses laughed as
stories of his long forgotten
brothers in arms melded
with grandsons and a wife
Twenty years gone
still remembered with a tear.

His family grieved
as he clutched that telegram
from a Queen he’d served with his youth.
Blinded by age,
not seeing the vibrant truth that sat,
in an oversized cardigan before them.
His soul as clear as the day he
squalled from his mothers thighs.

There are truths, and Truths
and lessons
and miracles
and hope.

Where do you look?

There is a lyric, somewhere,
lost
between the altruism of truth and hope.

It feels like floating,
embryonic, foetal
supported by unseen safety nets.

Waking, ogg mouthed
in wonder of transient osmosis,
that moment before the coffee is smelt-
heart deals fatal blows-
emergency resurrection in hollow memory.

Languid language
drips viscous like Mercury
quick from the sharp tongue,
bursting this protective amnion,
gushing pools of wasted sensuality,settle- evaporate

particulates remain to wave goodbye

to the hope that gave birth to idea
the whisper in the dark, so loud.

In this safe place,
nuzzled to familiar warmth
I know I cannot stay,
I should not be here
finding solace
Where none remains.

Silence reverberated after the storm,
a quiet acquiescence,
particles of life itself
trickling down an open palm
through closed fingers of thought.

Murmurs of past ghosts brushed
Infant like, lost in the dark of
vacuum as if searching for
a symbiotic mother,
some reason unknown
for weary travel to cease.

In the fireweed below long dead
present tenses stirred
shifted by the audacity of the visitor,
an audience of one
empowered with vision or delusion,
Machiavellian ideals of justice

It quietened after lightening passed
the watcher blinked
non-plussed with the beauty
of the dawns gentle kiss.
Ignorant of unfurling petals
between her toes.

Purposeful,

carefully arranged wine soaked pout

as stout as any endeavour.

 
With age has come duty-  a sense of

what’s required of a not-so-fair-maiden.

Sweeping tousles from her alert eyes

strokes linger ambiguously over her brow

tracing down smooth cheek

pale breast

plump thigh

Some cold remembrance of who she was before.

 
The stem of the glass welcomes her embrace-

those rosebud lips part, slightly

knowing she is being watched.

 
Comfortable in the knowledge of captive audiences

a great actress tried to convince herself

that all was right with the world,

she found her answers,

in bittersweet corked Merlot
 
solace
that she became better with age.

West,
The empress sits upon maternal throne,
bloated abundance beneath
An ivy crown,
Her golden hair radiates the wants,
needs of a weary heart.
West,
to land of mount and stream,
back whence I came
To be coddled in memories of youth?
Lle Mae dy gartref?

East-
the tower beckons,
It’s foundations torn and routed,
awaiting a rebuild that will never come.
Whispers in ruins of dissolution.
East,
land of fens and marches,
magic and mistrust,
to make a print in mid of agriculture?
Er ingle see fach degret?

South,
the world emblazoned in sun,
palms open, temptation screams
warmth, endurance – success
Fools gold.
South
Land of skyscraper and city
rush and ruin.

Decisions.
Delusions.
Anticipations.

Where is your home?

Half way through indignancy,

destiny undecided- a thousand languages

learned and discarded

grains of sand in the storm

of lyrical life.

Alone, fighting a war against yourself

never stopping to take stock

of paths threaded and weaved,

influences made and shattered,

loves loved and lost,

longing.

As the vast expanse unfurls

will the first step be taken?

In comfortable silence,

watch the dawn entice life of golden dunes

forever shifting, adapting, evolving,

Whilst you sit

On this plateau.

Feet sink in soft green tinged sand,

submerge instantly with tainted salt water.

                                                                                                        she waits.

Black blood in her veins

coursing through bruised lips,

chapped and weathered.

Child’s hands outstretched, 

criss crossed with scars of endeavours past

mantle draped and torn,

she mouths languages of dead lands.

Clouds part above – tears fill onyx eyes

staring resolutely into a viscous wind.

Seven sorrows laden her breast,

hidden by wilding matted hair.

Above, far above 

where land juts indignantly

from  tempests waves

he hears her whisper.

Upon the highest crag

woven with knots of old oak

spar grass, charred bones-

he peers majestically at his Kingdom.

Scales opalescent shimmer

the scent of her,

woman, warrior, heroin

his.

Below,

she knows the pull of her heart

leads her to flame,

to where her blood runs black

and ashes are

home.

He held my hand protectively,

rough, calloused so deeply

that hard days dirt had settled

in wood tattoos telling the story of his life.

( )

He smelt of old-fashioned soap

army clean with shiny boots

beneath worn coveralls doused in oil.
( )

Look up,

the earth has a blanket
( )

billions of ice crystals in nimbus

concerto. Snow, heading our way

in an overture of delighted expectancy.
( )

To a child’s eyes, the dragons danced

crocodiles snapped, ships sailed, witches flew

and unicorns existed in those majestic peaks.
( )

That night,

wrapped up in flannelette,

Watching the clouds fall to earth

I dreamt I was warmed

by that same foamy blanket

as I fell asleep in dads arms.

Fine entangled threads

woven intrinsically embroiled

threaded delicately

thought through

slight of hand.

Through yellowed smoke

time ticked

waning

needles pulled;

a mastery of closing holes

patching over 

fragile lies seeped

with an over large darn.

Spider webs designed

to entice living flies

these stained doilies

of interlaced words of intent

and malice

served no purpose but to 

kill time.