The Friend, the Foe
I see you are back my old friend, Dogblack
I know you well from the inside and out
now your muzzle is starting to show grey
I know even more fear for Beyond-Black
who has stayed away quite awhile.
Lolloping along, up and over, then down
my old familiar Dogblack beast, could
you see the ogre off, for past the beast
lies the foe, Beyond-Black into which
I am drawn from time to time
Beyond-Black is an outrider on the edge
waiting for the tiny slip, the smallest fall
there he is closing in with his stranglehold
seeping energy, leaching will, so there is
nothing to move, only time will tell if you will
Beyond-Black comes from the inner core
relentless in consuming from within, what
little is left of me to resist the flow both ways
of sound sleep but not of mind, maybe just maybe
my friend Dogblack will be back and save me
Listen to The Friend, The Foe (read by the Author)
I Hear the Rain
I hear the rain, unremitting dripping, washing down the pane.
Just the weather to clear the blood off the line, track into the mud.
The severed head wobbles down the black track between the lines.
What a senseless waste of human life but what else to do with it now?
Just the bitterness to cry in misery on a cold day in the lead up to summer.
Mud gunge and life gore, fecund of thought, nerves raw and fraught.
Not love for myself, that indeed is an empty vessel but one that does not float
but sinks gushing, gapes letting in the dark, that way I will sink without trace.
Mud spilling in, pulling me down, vicious circle, vortex sinking, dejected and round.
I can see myself in the dark of deep depression, braced against the silent onslaught,
what weapons can I draw to cut through the darkening mud?
To stop the stinking flow I have to raise up and halt the deep creep dead.
Call upon love to try and block deadly through, slew out from death,
into life and the love of light, how pure love can strike and cleave the thick
black of despair, back down, like some unruly dog sent running tail hanging.
Love fights the black, unlikely though it sounds, love flowing in and spreads out,
love of people, those that care, love by those who understand, love lifts up life.
Bear me forward over jagged edge, steep precipice and through the deep chasm.
From the winter of age there is no following spring.
I can feel my strength being sapped, my muscles slackening.
Oh yes – that reminds me I must see a man about a dog
while I have a chance. It started slowly, stealthy,
now it is rolling, gathering momentum, inexorable time.
I can think of nothing as quiet as the sound of hair turning grey.
‘The best is yet to be’ is from times when age was
an achievement, now it is a test of endurance.
How often do you hear the word venerable now –
in reverence of age? Gone from the west.
Look to the east for acceptance of worth of winter age.
Warrior woman wearied by time, once furious, often feisty.
Now prone, doing Saint Vitus’ dance on her own.
Bruised with age, ring worn thin with passing years.
Her lover dead for half her life. His memory
the core of her grief.
Soon to pass.
Not Quite a Minute of Memory
Can art be locked into numbers,
rhyme or meaning?
art knows no bounds,
is crime indeed as well as words.
not to commit
is innocent of nothing new.
this minute is
easy to do.
Not always attached but definitely belonging.
Has no direct use but useful in the heat.
Quite often disturbs as it flits and flickers
in the corner of your eye.
But try to live without one –
the only way is to die.
Ghosts do not have one.
If you hear a lament does it make you sad?
Do you feel a pain of human missing and loss?
Would you do without this pain if you could?
If you sit too close to a barbecue, on a lonely evening,
when the heat gets uncomfortable you turn or shift away.
But that is not so easy when the pain comes from within.
There are some kinds of pain which do not discourage you
from probing – like the socket of first tooth gone on a thread
what is not so easy to flee is the chance encounter that is the end
before the beginning is underway, do they feel the way you do
how difficult it is to tell, how hard to make way for feelings
that you hardly know yourself. Listen to your inner
self and be true to the human condition or
else venture, so little nothing gained
in the end only pain
Poetry For Mortals
Poetry is to me the most complex art
A poet must be a writer of brevity
With adherence to rhythms
A dancer of characters
A worthy wordsmith
A sequence choreographer
A master of timing and piquancy
A selector of syllables and sibilance
Oh dear I nearly forgot to mention the rhyming too
Unlucky for Some – Punishment: Write Thirteen Lines for not Writing a Poem
I saw a cat
with a can.
In the can
I saw a poem.
Can the cat
see a poem.
If the cat can
I will say damn.
That cat is
that I saw
with a can.