bitterness sticks on the tongue
and fingers here
twittering slick ice-knife parable
a phD in pain from blunt instruments
serving up noble death as a
turd in the drinking water dialogue.
Have you tasted it?
Nothing good left here,
just methane – the daffodil scent of it –
filtering and eventually bruised yellow and away.
Let boys learn well,
sorry will not make it safe to drink yet.
Dearest reader,
I write to you from Poetry
out here peripheral and near to dream
where the sun spattered trees
sentinel in autumn’s air
and the detailed sky is entirely held together
by voices of pardelotes and peewees
who call and call for summer.
The season shifts and exhales
at 3 am and slow pulses align
poems grow best in dark soft night
and bloom fantastic morning’s beam
birdsong, sky, clarity.
Giant of the ocean outpost
hovering last of your kind
gone now, like the easter moon
with just dust in your shell.
It is the last uphill –
my face flushed; the sun is all akimbo in the trees.
Bike pulls against slope and those tendons those joints
that until now laid under skin uncomplaining
tell me how they are in flickers of pain
pushing up then pulling down gravity unrelenting –
when the goggle man appears flowing downhill like river falls
he is henchman to the hill pull;
is the harbinger of summit –
he almost wears a cape
and he never smiles.
You will not be at the door
and maybe never wait for me again
by the road or on the tiles.
Night walks to look at the moon
or smell those passing scents
as the street quietens, are over.
Now, you have gone home, forever,
away from us and our loud songs
of love and fear and frustration.
But there is s small song I will always sing
my pawprint imprint
under the skin.
poemation 