Poetry

Raven, omen of doom
Hen, always clucking
Starling, blink and it's gone
Booby, good for an eyeful
Pigeon, so long as you've food
Swan, safe from a distance

Empty pews lie flanked by
shadowy eaves.
Midnight crows roam about
Snuffing candles.

Smoky presence left by
Incense pooling.
Silent prayers now where
Hymns resounded.

It seems we are at a fork in a country road by a tree.
I stand there restless. You sit down to think.
But you can’t think, not without something old and blue.
And when I find one it fits naturally.
Then all at once memories pour forth.
You tell me of times before, of dinners in Rome and fruit-picking in Virginia.
Of busy city streets and quiet country roads.
Like this road on which we wait, not knowing where to go.
You tell me not to worry, big things are coming.
It seems we’ve been here forever, never more than a day..
But I know tomorrow will be different.

Another day. Yesterday. I asked what you wanted.
You said you didn’t know. A bag, a suit, something borrowed and new.
I wonder how did we come here, does it make sense to those looking in.
I’m never quite sure are you happy, are we happy.
Just two people on the country road, not knowing where to go.
I ask again about those other times, of times yet to come.
Of numbers to be counted and voices to be heard.
This can’t be all I say and to my surprise you agree.
You get down on one knee.
It’s time to leave this mess behind, will you marry me?
We take the fork. We’re leaving not waiting, together.

You may find what you're looking for down the alley of dangerous angles.

Down by the dumpster
the beggar man sips pumpkin spice latte.
He's counting pi, counting down.
It can reach zero in the alley of dangerous angles.

There's a takeaway run by Takers,
a street sign walking through walls
of a Georgian house drowned in moral decanters
Physics don't always add up in the alley of dangerous angles.

Inside the house
where they talk to themselves, to the TV
about the wages of sin, of sex, debauchery.
There's nothing complex about the alley of dangerous angles.

Sometimes there's a dog
lurking under dead trees
watching smoke pour out to sea.
He's digging up the root of the alley of dangerous angles.

Oh you may find what you're looking for down the alley of dangerous angles
but mind the edges.

I set off as sky touched red. Past roads familiar. Past faces I knew better than my own. They watched me go, etched in stone. No goodbyes, I was treated with silence. Such is penance. A cat paused on a wall. Like me it smelled the cinnamon. First I came to the church. I paused and prayed outside. For the day that was in it. For the bounty I was given. A siren screamed her song but I was gone. Over the wall and beyond.

The world shaded blue. I moved with haste, much to do. Down steps I descended, into the valley of light. I passed people unfamiliar. They gave no greeting but then I didn’t want one. A monument of flowers in a language I couldn’t read. I arrived at the weir where the waters shaped by man. I stayed there awhile as the light faded. On the other side a chainlink fence. This was my moment. I’d never asked for it but I’d brought it anyway. Here and now, time to break the chain.

As the stars first twinkled I journeyed on. The road grew dark and the path fell away. Soon I was lost amidst the trees. Yet the birds sang. Robins and wrens, sparrows and blackbirds. They flicked through trees around me. they knew they were free. A candle light shone ahead. I came at last to the shrine amidst the trees. I knew the river was close but heard it not. Past the shrine the trees closed in and all became black. This far, no further. Every step, turn back. No turning back. The sirens don’t have me yet.

I sleep and as I sleep I dream. I dream of stars burning and radiant. Transfixed I stand. Their twirls across the sky, their whirls beneath the moon. Here lies endless beauty.

Shadows blot out the dance. Alas that I must wake. Voices echo on bare stone. Words rush over me. Rivers wash away the years. Thoughts unwind.

Their eyes speak of urgency. Something is pressed into my hand. Cold, hard, it cuts right to the bone. Sunlight glitters on faces. I lose myself in their depths.

A green time. We forged a bright future in friendship. Until their wretched hearts wrought treachery. Their gazes filled with avarice, they left me to darkness.

Return. Again and again to the uncaring present. These voices, I tell them what they want. Gratitude is my only reward. Greed lights in new eyes.

The babble becomes a susurrus until even the whispers are gone. I hold it still, clutched tightly in a skeletal hand. I look to the stars and wait for them to die.

There shall be a judge for every crime,
and whosoever sins shall be found.
Let them be stripped, pieces put on display,
their children taken away.
They shall be paraded before the people,
that all may see this is a sinner.
Then let the healing by hammer begin
the forge will burn their edges away.

Run again and all is well.

Today I read the news of twisted north,
where suns were drowned in seas of angles.
I asked the cicada why her wings were made of words,
why spell a painting backwards.

It is the end of an era she said,
your greatest work refutes you.
The kaleidoscope of tangerines is winding down to nothing.
You should have read welsh poets.

There is no rational, I countered.
You can take apart a body but not a mind.
When I looked again her wings spread over the sky.
It was a parking ticket.

Stranger, bear word to the Spartans
that white collar warriors lie
in honour of their policies.

And now to celebrate the return of the devpit, a haiku.

Found shovel out back.
We dig through dirt thick with code
And deep as the grave.