Simplicity

Gabriel leaves with the blossoms at midnight clamoring for the simplicity of things in their place. Blue rain falls on abandoned bicycles on sheltered roadsides. Constructed leaves decaying like a galaxy of hollow stars. There’s something pagan in our elaborate happiness, dancing like fire eaters and Scaramouch attacking the streets. No one stands for Alexander, Napoleon caricature, seagulls above, the unforgiving darkness choking the red waves of daylight. This chaos will collapse into a single point. We are tired. The sun is new. We wake again.

The Singer

Like a star this God burned down to earth to hear the song. The Singer had wild hair, pale blue eyes, and wore a loose suit. They were framed by the endless and all-encompassing sea. Their song was gospel, rising, fire. Their song was heart, withering, nature. Compassion and brittle bones in a choked voice of strained bliss. The God fell to one knee and ran their fingers through the grass. They breathed in the cold air. The song ended and the God was eye to eye with the Singer, and neither bowed. The God returned to nights black ocean. The Singer looked down. They would both now walk with steps of purpose.

One Dream

Let me dream paradise,

merciful, unsullied.

Recollections of a Green Man;

Eden’s guard –

quicksilver streams and a quiet dominion.

Let me leave the personal,

the cutting words,

the hours.

I find no time to live my waking life

as golden explosions of fire –

just a nervous stumble

and a spark at the desperate edge of night.

Sick of Being a Mariner

Sick of being a mariner

effective against nothing,

slamming my fist into the waves.

Cold blood runs wild

freezing everything inside –

a massive weight

unable to move.

But though I withdraw,

claw at my skin,

laugh –

I drift further from shore.

From any shore.

My Winter

Send help, the fire’s gone out.

I’m not prepared for winter –

keeping my door shut

can’t see the trees.

I don’t know if I need someone,

but it’s too hard to make it alone.

Choir

Close my eyes I see a flower

rising horns and strings

breaking down walls.

Dance because of the neon blue,

Share joy,

ambition.

Stand up before the choir

able to fell armies,

able to turn the tides of the heart

and quell it’s restless waves.

Little Fires

I am sick of mountains –

I just want to walk and

Feel the elements;

sneer at kings,

understand the fearful.

I want familiarity with the moon,

Kinship with the Gods

I want to charm the constellations.

I might be able to light little fires –

enough to open pathways through the desert.

I am sick of standing still,

letting the waves crash into me

as Aurelius may wish –

This rock face is breaking without forming.

I can only ramble over what I want:

The Aegean

the snow

Hours in Spain

My matching spirit.

I might be able to light little fires.

I might.

Selene

There was only a trace of the moon tonight:

a silver falling lock of hair,

Selene hiding her beauty in shadow.

But with that one shy appearance

she enchanted a sky between day and night.

That blue hour, Helios retreating –

freezing and crystalline.

Travelling

I have seen many lands

by simply chasing the sun,

explored the echoes I strained to hear,

in darkened churches of ancient years

I have heard the songs I needed sung.

I have traced cracks on these hands –

forgotten them for my friends

who have travelled with me on my path

to examine every epitaph

Where Giants once took a final stand.

I’ve seen so many things end;

The laurels etched on the stone

to crown the poets divine and gone.

And now I read their silent songs,

and leave with only me, alone.

Cornwall

God I miss Cornwall,

the air thick with salt, sand,

and the smell of pasties from the abundant bakeries.

The windows that I’ve looked out of over many years.

The shop where my parents bought me, a mithering pixie,

useless plastic.

Taking the long walks that I once detested.

I love them now. Walking into the clear landscape high above the harbour

with fields of farm land stretching out into the near horizon.

My father doesn’t walk as easily any more, but he will because it’s worth it.

The beaches once had a hold on me, a point of joy, a place to run –

A place to swim far into the sea. Maybe too far, looking back now.

The beach is now the final resting place for my grandparents,

whose ashes we scattered upon the cliffs and watched them as they were carried on the breeze

out towards the ocean and the sun.

It’s been too long now.