Try writing with a maimed hand
words will not write, only speak
the finger may not move
but words will into a long loop, an arc, a clever movement the heart and mouth will move
hands will not write, the mouth will, and words will take shape of the earthly, into a slow movement of a poem. The body will not write these words, not the hand.
The maimed hand will one day speak a poem.
The body, hands will not move.
Loneliness in evenings, after long fruitless waiting
For cherished visitors, bites and beats and breaks
The spirit to have prepared in great ways to greet
People whose laughter fills your room, emptying it
Of all dullness that keeps gathering in busy times
When out of work, as much as you may want to move
More and more, you find heaps of work raising their heads
Like mountains insurmountable in the regular fashion
To which you are so naturally tied without ever realising
You could definitely have seen them coming had you, but
For your business, just given them a short notice for your
Eager and desperate waiting to spend time in their
Company in all its charm and splendour and magnificent aura.
It’s all seasonal,
now is the time for hibernation.
It may feel stagnant?
but it’s not,
there are important things
going on behind the scenes.
Your subconscious is contemplating spring…
recharge, learn something new that’s helpful.
Take long, hot baths
and float in and out of yourself.
Ready the horses,
oil the cogs and wheels.
One of these days soon
will be a doorway
back into the mad, fray of life.
To mind-bind with positive thought
is to armour the soul
ready for fantastic action.
Here is preparation…
spontaneity bounces
much better from a well-heeled boot.
No time is wasted in readying…
you’re busy gathering inner kindling
ready for that massive bonfire
that’ll soon be raging inside your heart.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
I am a stone in these hills
I am a monument shrouded
myth encoded, in these hills
I am the rock of passion
cloud of vision, in these hills
I walk across summer, winter and spring in these time-blasted hills
I cut across deliriousness into winter-wounded songs
in these hills
I change colours of night
I change colours of day
in these hills
I am a chorus of voices
bird song of noises
in unwavering places, in these hills
their roads cannot escape their lies cannot lull me
into a gathering dusk of sleep.
Waking morning is tiredness of a day passing shadows of moments what happens in the day is effusiveness of the sun, the catcall of the wind, noisy talk on sidewalk and the half murmur of a child wanting a begging bowl to be replenished by coins people keep in back pockets. The day wakes up to realities of chatter, to discover if anything will be different, or if the closet will be empty. In the evenings when sun’s shadows invert the day draws lines on weary faces.
A tepid bite of winter
the sun vanishes and mists
take me into an universe rotating between hills, storm and mountains.
Planes swagger. Dust swathes the earth.
No birds flapping
no wings to fly on
only the clouds like needles point a huge finger, at the sky which has lost all hope.
Multi verse.
Today the news of another death, of someone so known
is no death, no news simply another gush of blood and the veins
rupture, head spins
heart is matter,the dead speak of abyss, dreams and recondite ghosts.
Spiking dreams is this news, the other day saw
her, laughedbothofuswiththeembattledwind
nowdeathisadream.
Am I as potent,
as perfect,
as the knight who holds me
in an ungenerous grip?
Or am I mere speck
worthy of disdain
worthy nonetheless,
of
defeating,
slaying
‘expiring’
lives
in never ending battles?
Or am I slick beauty,
nonchalantly
winning
days and nights,
skies and oceans,
curls and pearls,
for my palace royals?
What if I am,
an entity inanimate –
plain, but playing
slain, yet slaying
hearts
minds
souls?
Evilly shining,
in universal battlefields…
More at https://thewordcouch.wordpress.com/.
Do you doubt my memory
And think all your acts of love,
In great charity, that you have
Bestowed on me should be
Forgotten at a brush of a whip
Someone somewhere in whim
Holds like the letters filling a blackboard
In a classroom full of knowledge and meaning,
The students so avidly take down all, vanish,
Leaving the board empty and clean for a
New set of letters, once again from corner
To corner fill, demanding attention of the class,
And displaying the scholarship of the master
Whose hands create the majestic movements of ideas
On the empty board possible and laudable?
Should you not have faith in you
And your forgotten charities
That, I can never forget
Though your acts of sympathy
And love, have made me
What small and inconsequential
Self I have by your contributions
Become by now.
Snakes do not bite
water is tight
for man to decipher
the bite which is
ridden
with fallow hope
of escaping blood
and vague articulations
of death as, the hit back
is not poisonous
only somnolent.