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| Version | User | Scope of changes |
|---|---|---|
| Mar 14 2009, 2:02 PM EDT (current) | Dickpoet | 30 words added |
| Apr 30 2008, 12:32 PM EDT | Dickpoet | 12 words added |
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Some older stuff
The Curve of Desire
You sit at a slight angle.
The red plastic chair curves
in imitation of your form
as silvery folds in your dress picture
flowing lines of aluminium sheen
stretched over smooth skin.
The slow curve of your forearm lies
easy by the hem,
light catching metallic reflection,
shadow-dark beneath casts of red.
This projection of colour
catches my gaze.
We do not speak; your angle says enough.
A suggestion of movement flickers
in this silent composition
where a cool sweep of silver draws
the curve of desire.
Jazz Riff 1
Through it comes dot pop zero signifies
tiny speck cosmic jet pulls each
the smallest spot not insignificant
single fencepost supports
nothing drawn.
This is not whatever you suppose
as it might be pointing zero to the wall
signs on the line winding over
elevator remembers flashback of splash
plunges deep
as some finger-flick tenor riff blows
up your jumper tits feel and breaking dips
colour to the wind. Plays the tune
making much of it and plastered over
crumhorn buzz sphincter tight
trips binding power over one two three
go and be ready on the beat pilling bulbs
in the sun golden apple of parsec marble
brings it in Dominae Deus huff-puff
trump card wool flying dusty
specks irritating eyes, throat, nasal passage
upfucking the square blows it
hard and soft reveals pictures
hidden, loves to sing but based with ending
reveals pipework curved to sound
bluenote shafts air Manhattan
echoes the mind
spontaneous thoughts
skyline building
ends.
Tarantula
Where does this track lead me past stick and fallen leaf
I wander without purpose it seems but I have to do it
pattering the leaf litter a foot and a foot one after another
I walk great distance by night beneath the dark thing
overhead is always canopy something moving
danger ever present in vibration sensed but I must
still roam in search of what I don't yet know
I do know it will be there one day waiting or not
but I shall be ready for that moment which is why
this floor of leaves urges me on.
Yet what am I, what size or shape this urge to kill
overwhelms my slow walk as I strike not knowing
why except to eat this or that coincides well
keeps me going I must go search turn leaves
till I find that with which my life is charged
encountering desire over what might kill me
but that is not important overhead is darkness
beneath rustling feet as I go on searching
for what I cannot understand but I'll keep looking
touching silk that invites now into evermore.
Don't Let Yesterday Use up Too Much of Today
Cherokee proverb
This poem appeared in Issue 21 of 'Dream Catcher' in April 2008
Yesterday uses
too much todayPrevent it from devouringstop
it
now
memories of then impingingyour time your
in times present eating awayin-
sinuating themselves
into now or what comes nextheart burningworries of then
frets
the present bypushedinto
too much yesterdayOh don't open itlets
it in
forcing open
or beget ghosts of thensmall presentto populate our
[infinitely]
Crying the Moon
When you were a child you reached for the moon,
could not quite grasp it, failed to understand
or read its distant dial, not yet seeing
the taunting, pock-marked smile -
a dish of secrets.
So you cried for what you might not own,
the love of this and many other things
unattainable to probing fingers
pushing hard the gates of reason,
the what and why and how
forcing boundaries, unaware
as yet of their existence. Yes, you cried,
wanting that orb of light for a charm
but still it hung, a silver-leaf icon
placed there as if to tease.
Now, so far on, the moon has changed its face.
You cannot grieve for what you cannot have.
It's all too much, too far and anyway
the mystery is solved. The bootprint's stamp
remains; a fat lip planted on the mask
of a treasure that you once held dear.
Note: With the exception of Don't Let Yesterday Use up Too Much of Today, all other poems featured here are from my recent collection, This is not a Sonnet.
