Indignant in her confidence
she is a crutch for many,
but now time to drop the penny.
That there are two ends to a rope,
in all her strengthened binding,
the power to haul sails aloft
where life’s canvas can only
be seen in her, as steady.
As she goes, now needs secure knots,
a chain splice might be the tight.
http://www.animatedknots.com/chainsplice/index.php?
dwk
I must have said the words a hundred times that night
close to mother’s ear , in hushed voice with shushes,
‘sleep mam, sleep,
try to find your sleep’.
to an ear that had heard my first ever cry,
and the first sounds uttered by three others.
A shell that had heard the lap or crash of many sea tides.
pinned back for orders in service as a Wren.
A vessel generously lent, often bent,
but thrilled by a husband’s laughter.
An organ that balanced her true singing voice
given in celebratory song for her belief,
that absorbed a bible and Salvationist’s songbook.
Open to aid all others, never deaf to need
this was now the phone for my repeating
‘mam,
try to find your sleep’.
riding out, on Matt's quarterhorse, Marky's pinto and cool Luke's thoroughbred, towards the house of John's good cheer, hear only our loose laughing tongues and horse breath in still, hot air. Then startled, sudden prancing, the horses turn a kick, no one fell, know calming tricks, check out fetlock or missing shoes. But, then on the trail comes around a guy with a gun, slowly smiling, but with no fun any horsesense can smell. He offers g'ddays and asks the ways to 'Peter's Grand Gatehouse', he's "following father, as any good son", looks worried tho, just like those folk whose trigger finger, will soon see them done. To lengthen wear of his saddle we tell him ride 'westward keep following the sun', and, on his calm, fine, snowflake Appaloosa to the frontier of the horizon, can hear fading... his sprinting horse's foot fall, drum an' a drum, drum an' a drum, drum an' a drum.dwk
Living in lies by the railway line
Pushing the hair from my eyes
Elvis is English and climbs the hills
Can’t tell the bullshit from the liesScreaming along in South London
Vicious but ready to learn
Sometimes I fear that the whole world is queer
Sometimes but always in vainSo I’ll wait until we’re sane
Wait until we’re blessed and all the same
Full of blood, loving life and all it’s got to give
Englishmen going insaneDown on my knees in Suburbia
Down on myself in every wayWith great expectations I change all my clothes
Mustn’t grumble at silver and gold
Screaming above Central London
Never bored, so I’ll never get oldSo I’ll wait until we’re sane
Wait until we’re blessed and all the same
Full of blood, loving life and all it’s got to give
Englishmen going insaneDown on my knees in suburbia
Down on myself in every wayDay after, day after day, day after
Zane, Zane, Zane, Ouvre le chien
Day after day, day after
Zane, Zane, Zane, Ouvre le chien
Day after
Songwriters
DAVID BOWIEPublished by
Lyrics © TINTORETTO MUSIC
dwk
like a canyon’s span
the space between us
is now immense.
that speck of light & shadow
over there,
was once our planet,
was our delight of tactile warmth.
the prism of touch that brings bliss
beyond lips and hands.
the rock over there, where she stands
is her life sphere, her family and friends
that’s not my place,
over there.
but laid out like a drill sample
for inspection on electronic pages
it churns emotion like the blade
that pulled this strata cylinder
out of the background.
separated by existence itself
life has slipped through fingers
to make our places, there and here
and lost, infinite possibilities,
had I not leapt from the rig
over there.
© dwk
was it ever quiet? were we ever still?
every day a struggle to master the storm? gusts of passion drove us from youth and innocence. love was tempestuous and softness and fragility became hardened. deep scars healed, taught and changed us. left us clinging to rocks in a sea of fears.
was it ever quiet? as we made our passage from ignorance to knowledge. were we ever still enough to find the stars, to feel tide flow, to plot our course? we hurled ourselves against the breakers, blind in passion within the foam and clasping hands, struggling for balance, for a foothold on the slipping, shifting shinglestone.
were we ever still? as bitter brine washed wounds with wet and cold reality, cooling the ecstasy of experience and now here, aloft in the safe arms of the rigging, over a green grey sea I search horizons for that elusive point of light and persist in hope,
a moment of peace in the skyline of your deep eyes and the sun of your smile.
for V
©dwk
the edge of the bed
where hearts bled
help proffered, even comfort given
but the stain remains.
where vanity released,
partners pleased
and even time given
but the shame remains.
where time slows
and frames per second bend and bow
relief from weights given
but the life span remains.
where sunlight stripes
where smiles touch
looks and contact given
but the pain is sustained
and hours passed, time taken
on the edge of the bed
where this was written.
©dwk
we dust in England
now that winter’s here
with thoughts of Caribbean shore
where the water’s clear,
while fighting with the furniture
cleaning clogs her mind
with the sand of golden places
and how to make time rhyme.
The bang and clatter of the chairs
drums of the swinging dance,
of carnival, now greyed away
in spots of rain and mirror spray
the kaleidoscope and spectrum play
upon her greatest fear.
Only to clean once a week
and not find courage for release
from such slavery to visit
such a glorious beach!
dwk
…. here I am at 12am
using boating metaphors again
writing to another darling
that isn’t exactly plain sailing.
Boats are good for describing fate
and in my poem, writing late:
the tossing of a craft in a storm
or the cutting adrift, seconds
after we’re born !
Describe perfectly the voyage of life.
Adrift?
Waiting for some coming strife?
Winds blown by providence
with great effect for some.
Partners in life can be as sails
allowing us to pursue our trails
some big and billowing
allowing much tack or
others are for smaller ships
and sagging in ambition lack.
Becalmed, without choice
we wait for any movement
as in life we wait for improvement.
Currents can push us off set course
despite our mad paddling,
as if we could deter such force.
But, phrases such as: marooned,
castaway and high & dry
seem most used and appropriate
when there is no rope to tie.
No safe harbour, no protection
as the storm swirls and rages,
just loneliness, awaiting the next entry
in the log of destiny’s pages.
dwk ‘86
egos so huge
they often fall
without counterweight
of humility or respect
an undesireable trait.
its OK though
we carry them
over rock, soil, sea & sand
to where they belong
parliament, team or band.
of course I love you
I always have
but you would not have it
so that was that.
I will not fight
for the unwilling
as in some scene
disownment will crack
any dream.
I will not persist
with love unfulfilling
all it can mean is
frustration will ransack
all thoughts unseen.
Of course, I love you
I watch your surf wave
and hope your spirit
floats above my flat.
dwk
the problem is the solution is:
it’s broken, adhesion
in pieces: willing togetherness,
dull shards bright futures
of expectancy, of a full life,
lost euphoria, that awakening
fragments of intimacy. engagement
Thrown many times in a single glance,
dropped so often, caught in closeness
it no longer has a chiming bell
a pulse. a passionate throb.
It so depends on how you look at line or range.
dwk
I remember many re-weavings
and fabric still evident.
Passageways and maze pathways
through forests of violent interception
or dumbstruck obstruction.
Woven with a magic grace
instilled from decades of search,
dye work and strengthening
intertwined with the magic
of instinct and genius.
Patterns of passes left on weft
with the yarn of practiced efficiency,
sometimes off-set by the cleverness
of determined obstacles in parallel
and damaged thread.
But overall a ruby cloth for entertainment
swelled by the liquid of finance
and worldwide wanted association.
Still using the same design for victory
the pinnacle for the least fanatical
reached so many times
in decades I have desperately needed
the expectancy, the euphoria and
the lift from my pit, of goals gained.
All designed by a Knight
called – Ferguson.
dwk
at every opportunity to write to thee
I cannot bring the stain to be
of ink on paper or on screen
for yours to be seen.
Curious, that ‘seen’ and ‘screen’
have not always been
of such close association.
Technology advances vision
by dot refreshing provision
disseminating all information,
binary packages reassembled
now even, on television.
But yesterday,
a pharmacist, of all professions,
could not supply, a price or receipt,
because……………..?????
the screen could not achieve the feat!
Woe, because the machine hadn’t catalogued
categorised, calculated or computerised
what if the net be diminished?
The comment, when I suggested pen & paper?
“You know, my grandmother asked recently
when was the last time you wrote
a letter?”
dwk
dwk
….from the nursery across the street,
I hear the sounds of rushing feet
and gleeful, over-shoulder goodbyes,
not even contact with mother’s eyes.
Alone all day to play with friends
while mother and father
fight to find ends,
let alone make them meet!
To keep ‘baby’ healthy
and buy large eye gifts,
generation separating things
that parental imagination
never thought could exist.Joy shrieking, learn wandering,
through their day of play,
once a neighbour complained
that “that such a facility should
not be in a residential space..
(as statisticians working from home),
..could not bear the noise of this place”.
He moved…..
They, happily play on, unaware
as should be.But generation gaps are now canyons.
Most under 40’s have shared this absence,
left alone to navigate, without a sail
just a pilot, those needed departed?
Is detachment of young spirit
a subtle conditioning through
necessary gregarious engagement,
later rejected?
A displaced absorption from ’parent’s knee’,
substituting language, mannerism or even physicality
for which only familiar DNA has the key?Locked away forever,
inhibited by prevailing culture
that belongs to the consuming mass,
instead of the sweet intimacy of the nest
or grandma’s best?
Then there! A green bud
whose spirit shouts though lips sealed,
flashing against society’s soil
that the unselfish, the unspoilt
do persist.
dwk
Division destroys,
it locates the smallest crack
and levers particles apart.
The way of physics also seems
the way of the heart.
As unison employs
the healing of conscience
and setting aside of self.
Stable partnerships flourish
enveloping us, in love’s wealth.
Self-respect is only achieved
through reverence given.
©dwk
I brought this pad out
to list my things to do
but styled vocabulary
of a different brew.
My friend here about
is delighted by rhyme,
and shows us weekly
the sophistication of words.
In either a whisper or shout
however spoken, resonate
the strings he strums
and hearts vibrate.
For a cigarette he’ll tout
but too cool to shake
his dictionary is a playground
geared with a talented trait.
©dwk2012
......over the edge 