The Bells

 Another one gone! 

Brothers left without brothers

and mother's with hands so wrung 

they become the bell that tolls for grief.

Rare and not so rare 

their share of hard won wisdom 

is gone.

Vanished. Lost.

And what a loss it is, 

The lessons they shared with us

lessen the din of

 disharmonious hum into

sympathetic resonance.

If You Go Down To The Woods Today

 The crown effect guarantees ends don’t quite meet in the folio dome of this cathedral. 

Timorous squeaks and piercing pleas out of reach to uncaring ears. 

As atheistic as I am, I recognise the prayers of the prey,

the pleasures of the predator.

Withheld warmth brings my uncaressed flesh to shiver.

Croaking, he hops. Eyes sharp, beak sharper; unobscured intelligence.

He’s come for my liver.

Head dips, gore drips and I am reminded of life’s 

carbon carousel.

Scream if you wanna go faster.

I had screamed, but what came after was not speed. 

What came after was 

dilated 

time.

I aligned myself with the smallest of beasts.

Ants. Watchmen beetles. Dispassionate and industrious.

Clouding eyes fixated on them; skittering, chittering.

Unmindful of the violence above.

Dry twigs and my bones were indistinguishable

snapping beneath brutal boots. 

Roots remodelled cheeks

deep lividity carving the caved contours into violets

blooming in darkness.

Ragged jagged breath and nails, too, tear

 for any available oxygen.

Desperation transforming 

grunts to glossolalia;

debutante to cooling cadaver.

In the post-orgasmic vacuum, psithurism roared.

I seeped through dank earth

and releasing claim on physicality,

observed from without.

Collectors

Some people collect stamps.
Some people collect coins.
Some people make air fix models so well
You can barely see the joins.

Some people collect conquests.
Some people collect scars.
Some people collect experiences
during which they see stars.

I've got a new collection,
and not through conscious act.
It's been kind of foisted on me and
I'd rather give it back.
I'll put it in an album,
Neat, protected, labelled, proud
private slice of all the lives
that used to be around.
Past tense.
You see it's all the funeral cards
with photos and songs and poems.
It's hard
to watch the collection grow.
I have no control
over this.
It's not like pokemon cards or vintage picture discs.
They're all limited editions,
all one off works of art.
All threads in one rich tapestry
of which we're just one part.
And the pattern that they weave glistens
Crystallised in wisdom.
Passed through timely advice
and an ear willing to listen.
It's not like I can display it.
For flat living it's highly compatible.
For the major part of it,
It's completely intangible.
The cards are merely a symbol:
A trinket in place of a jewel.
One hydrogen atom representing
Each universe of you.
So I'll put them in an album,
neat, protected,  labelled,  proud
and share them with the enthusiasm
of the traction engine crowd.

Some people collect conquests.
Some people collect scars.
Some people collect experiences
during which they see stars.

Some people collect stamps.
Some people collect coins.
Some people make air fix models so well
You can barely see the joins. 

Psalm for Motorcyclists

TT is here

The wheel of prayer roaring
Thirty seven and three quarters
Of energy embedded in
Sacrificially sanctified soil.

This is how new ley lines are formed.
This is where heroes are born.
This is why leather is worn.

The pillion-pilgrims return
With acolytes of their own
And pass the passion in their turn
To new generations grown.

Sacred speed, courage, endurance,
Gladiatorial battle with nature's forces
South sea sounding gulls wail a chorus
Heralding the arrival of thousands of tourists

The islanders take a breath.
Let us pray.

Too

it’s tomorrow already and all days are gone.

what once was hope’s now

broken, floating

           motes.

it’s too much already and all peace has gone.

what once was all’s now

cruel, crawling

        brawls.

it’s too hard already and all diplomacy has gone.

what once was tact’s now

fractured, panicking

              attacks.

it’s 2 AM already and all seeds of dreams have gone.

what once was future’s now

uprooted, fruitless

              disputes.

   

it’s too late already and all plans are gone.

what once was trust’s now

crusted, suppurating

            cuts.

Dear World

Look, we need to have a chat.

I’m getting a bit fed up

with dealing with the fall out

of your drama.

And it’s not only that,

my son keeps waking up

crying, calling my name out.

I’m trying to teach him about karma.

You see, he’s noticed (as have I)

that the bad guys keep winning.

Every time I leave the house

without him he cries.

I don’t want to raise a fearful child.

and his awareness is just beginning

but with news of more killings day in, day out

he’s convinced I’m going to die.

Not helped when I say

“Well, one day, I will”

through desire to tell him the truth.

So he says “But not today?”

And I’m swept over ill

tempting fate to give me liar’s proof.

So look, World I’m asking

you to buck your ideas up.

I love to share in positives

and I’m sick of masking

cracked ideals in cover ups.

Show them you get back what you give.

Sincerely,

Georgia. Xxxx

Magpie

All week long I saw them.

Those portents gleaming, squawking,

hopping, cocked head, taunting,

“Sorrow! Sorrow!”; giving warning.

Well dressed spectres perching trite

on ghoulish glamour of foresight

from watchful beads. Their message might

be overlooked, taken light

-ly. I mistook their solo missions

as personally guided acts of attrition

and didn’t realize what they were bringing

was the precious gift of premonition.

Now I replay my memories and lessons impart

-ed by you, my husband’s family’s matriarch.

Luminous lady now journeying in to dark

with no map or signs. No official chart.

Are those monochromatic couriers guiding

the Valkyries with whom you’re riding?

Battles corporeal you fought inspiring

-ly with bravery unretiring.

If the piebald post can pass their notes from Future into Past

Can missives slip between the cracks of the Living and the Passed?

And if only one can get through to you

out of the endless many

let it be this truth you’ve heard a million times:

“Ciao, Tesoro. Ti voglio bene”.

In memoriam of Luciana Pavia. 4th October 1940 - 20th January 2015