Really life isn’t good
good is in those infernal depths, good in those plumbing depths, back waters
of shores, where poetry takes a dip. Spectacular
crippled waves,
no good. goodness is in the
caked moon when dreams are over. Transparent. Shadowy. Return to life
when it is good – or not.
If you don’t have a poem
in lostness then words
in interplay will make
a hole, somewhere a wound
will not heal, only crying birds and a whispering wind will encircle skies lacerated with shots of the enemy. This is the world we live in even as we watch Republic Day on the tele, news has come that some gun-toting people are hovering with the wind, threating the sky, holding ramparts,so that poetry is blinded into a bleeding dog panting for a little water, so that the sky will not frown, and the hills not lament,
death of a poem.
Limbs loose
I was in hospital
I asked the doctor about my
blood pressure
the doctor told my wife
I had almost died
looked for my mobile
and was told that it was
in another ICU
and, then I knew that
my mobile was my
life.
lilies in bloom
thinking of you
at Christmas time
More at https://twitter.com/Haikuintraining.
Once a where
now a nowhere
he tramps among footprints
of hiatus
leaving an imprint
of silent, noiseless
legerdemain.
She likes swans
and ballerina feet shuffling.
The bend of a Welsh harp
(The actual musical ability is irrelevant!)
The circumference of a peach
not an apple nor an orange.
The sound the word ‘Pastel’ makes
whilst giggling through
gulps of fizzy lemonade.
Old heavy brass door knockers
(Yes, that’s the very ones!)
Clouds do nowt for her but frown.
Frogs are far better than Prince’s.
A 2pm afternoon alone,
with winter sunshine
sweeping underhandedly
through the kitchen window,
Is the perfect destination
for that new colour
she’s been secretly creating… sssh!
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
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.