Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’


 

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


ripped from sleep’s desert
I punch air and leap
into the days pain
roll from dampened moss
that was our bed,
and the mechanics begin,
the automaton who has
fouled the grave, again,
rises as smoke out of fire
but there are no ashes to clear.
A new dawn, new sheets?
and planted on a towel erect
an overturned soda glass
within the sheets
to assure an arid place
in this mattress creek
for arms of understanding.

 

 

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

as if. . .

Posted: September 16, 2013 in Neighbours, People, Poems
Tags: , , ,

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



You see,
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


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


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.

No 3rd verse

Posted: April 13, 2012 in Brain Health, Health and wellness, Poems
Tags: , ,

The diagnosis may be for long life
or to be on a shorter tether
and the dynamic of such restraint
are circles decreasing in diameter
less range, each turn
more decrepitude each cycle.
But,
the prognosis surmises lesser strife
you could have hit me with a feather
in fact, a portrait of oil paint
raising hope for ever after.
More an image of pink pattern
less the reality of life’s pickle.
And,
A third verse? No,
misuse of sayings, simile or metaphor
should end, caught in tangled tackle.

dwk

 

the goat farm

Posted: December 11, 2011 in Poems, Travel
Tags: , , ,

silver birds fight
to find the wheat land waypoint,
struggle with the south westerly
blowing sunday’s sky clean
of white tales.
Sideways glides and power compensations
make the place of turns
then, at waypoint hammersmith
elements batter and bend flight.
Trying to find the waypoint for approach:
laser, satellite, computer and synapse
battle to hub, eyes and seatbelts tight.
But the calculation obstacle course
of raw natural power
runs away from waypoint goat farm
or row of cottages on the heath.

dwk

where are you ?

Posted: July 6, 2011 in Poems
Tags: ,

who could be the robber,
who could, take it away?

Or you deprive:
the loss of fertile fantasy,
happy dreams, light bulb ideas,
human synapse electricity?

Or is there a component missing,
a toothless cog or some circuit broken
that once gave you
the high gear of emotion?

x

dwk

always about to begin

Posted: December 3, 2009 in Poems
Tags:

 
I don’t know
if it’s “alright”
I don’t know
but have this to fight.
 
The shaking battles,
and the quaking rattles
and all the time
I feel I am about to begin
 
Never ending,
an infinite fight,
because at the start
all the time means
there is no flight,
 
and this perpetual
readiness to begin
means I don’t know
if it’ll be “alright”.