Micropoetry. No.1

-
Leaves are yet not willing
Straining to rejoin the form
And hold up autumn
Still standing green.

Glowing grateful grin
Shining sun sing
Slowed in perambulation.

Emley Mast slices
A westering sun
Spicy glows fronds
Wait in rows
Come down the valley
Clinging
Branches pointing
Home.

Leeds City workers are autumn thieves
Sweeping up the fragile ends,
Along with cigarette butts,
Of leaves withering dead.

A strip of moon cupping vapour
Thinning clouds present
Blue, where spiders do weave truth.

Instance death
Waves body dance
Outward ripples
An ankle twists
Celebrate life.

See the mad?
They suggest insanity,
Being their residence,
Is a form we know not.

#1
Rich.
Never matter.
Material is nothing.
Bent.
Nailed too.
Occluded detritus.
Included atrophy.

#2
Piled up before.
A beast who preys.
On those who pray.
Totem.
Lustful licks.

Location: Wetherby, Wetherby

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

An Essay.

-
Introduction. My name is Pilgrim. I walk through this life much as I walk through my allotment – a space I often describe as disorganized, yet to me, it feels profoundly holistic. I don't fear wasp stings; I stride through nettles and thistles and brambles, finding a curious interest in the cut skin, a quiet control over the bleeding. I have no fear of the dark or the unseen. What truly disturbs me is the chatter, the small talk that ripples through existence, obscuring the profound truths unfolding before our very eyes. I prefer chaos to order, perhaps because the imposed order I witness around me feels so deeply, fundamentally false. I literally eat things along the path, unbothered by what others might deem unsafe, for my perceptions lie far beyond the superficial. I’ve come to see this world as a grand, unsettling performance, a "game" played at the highest echelons, designed to "manage the populace from cradle to grave." It's not a conspiracy in the nea...
Read more

France is ... a powerful antidepressant

-
I have to resuscitate a dying sense of spirit and enthusiasm into my present as I have become detached from the real joys of my life. No reading, no writing; no contemplation. Even now I am tempted to throw down the device and forget it, but why - because it's a dead end... Surely I can stay here a little longer until something infinite moves within and without? *** As I sit on Ruby's sofa/bed and listen to the sounds of spring, with the gentle murmuring of the pond at the bottom of the garden and the distant hum of the A1(M) I am aware of the distance growing between what I truly love and what I am become; in despair. Oh the alcohol fuelled me. The forgetful me. The desperately lonely me. The one I've cordoned off for the world to see. Ruby is happy with me, Lola is happy with me but I am unhappy with me simple as I am - Mother Nature's son: tranquil and unimpeded by mental noise... Knowing the truth will set me free, but being forever unable to accept it entirely. It...
Read more

You and I.

-
Are we joined, you and I? When I sit squished up, alongside thee, It seems we are: Dog and boy Man and mutt. A symbiosis between homo and canid, A combination of smells, swells and warmth, which is rarely malignant. What a lucky man I've been, knowing  She's going to rest assured and easy, These last many years, as we both Age gracefully and greying towards separation; where the winds blow us  Disparate, sometimes warm and often Cold, back to the single I; alas! No more the we. She of a gray face, And I an ashen shadow, But always brighter  Than a swarm of photons, Alighting a while, Out of their cosmic array...
Read more