poems read

One certain facet
of this island hopping
is the slipstreamy tail
of each ferry
while we lick salt
from our lips,
alter our speech
to receive brine
on our tongues,
note that when a boat
fractures water
there’s a place
where sea is not blue.

Only if we hold ourselves
still in the swell
and spray
of each journey
can we know
if language lies to us,
if candour is buried
on the ocean floor,
if the bony skulls
of whales and dolphins
conceal certainties,
if truth is written
and rewritten
on each tide.

More at http://mariemacsweeney.com.

My moments of solitude are anything but quiet,
there are far too many distractions,
noisily and colourfully waiting
just around the corner from the normal, grey world.
Nowadays I’m as selective as I can be about
which image footprints I let wander through my mind
…it all becomes part (Like it or not!) of the overall collage.
I can bend an hour into three
like a silversmith with soft moonlight.
Boredom when not impatience
is mostly reserved for teenagers and unhappy people.
The train of thought is an experience as well as a journey
and as wonderful as books and movies are,
they are still only beautiful snapshots
of the unchartered magic forever waiting to be explored
…I’ll see you in there, catch me if you can?

More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.

I step outside at midnight,
air drenched with woodsmoke,
dash of peat, a single cow
complaining, her troubled breath
weaving over the low hedges,
all birds tucked away
but there is movement still,
some shy creature wrapping itself
away in unassailable darkness,
and in the sky above
galaxies have gathered,
stars turns on star,
silver glitter and tinsel streamers
tumble down to the waiting earth,
the entire universe
assembles around my questions,
and I am drunk on raw ice.

winter moon
taken of life support
stars sparkle in the night

winter moon
lilies on your coffin
a final goodbye

Pacing that cold beach
of a dark night
you fish for truth
in those swathes of space
where a ship’s lighting
embraces the moon.

There is a slice
of sky and shingle
where you cast your nets,
spreading
starlight around you
for illumination.

The gods mock this,
their gimlet eyes fixed on you.
Bareback, they ride by
on bright horses, tossing
glitter sideways
as you slacken.

They sabotage your nets,
mutilate your catch
and the scraps
you have garnered are damaged
and drift away.
You need sorcery now, not science.

It arrives when the fire in your hearth
flames in the snowy bushes
of your garden,
and there is no need to infer purpose
other than the magic
of illusion.