Category Archives: prose

The Selfish Writer

i have discovered my difficulty

with reading you

for I am a writer

intently gripping the quill

and despite your florid attempts

you cannot alter the will

of my cursive compulsions to beguile

 

frequent attempts are made

to enter the frantic foray of your words

my inner computer jumbles with errant code

and with no service centre to call

  a hyperkinetic cursor marks my disquieted mode

 

for I am a writer

curl your fingers by my pages

gorge full the entrancing phrases…

 

now enlightened with my intentions

i revel in my frantic detentions

auguring your

ambrosial

attentions

Cycles

the sky is sanctuary

where silken shreds of your soul

have sun tendril melded

lashing golden in my sight

i squint in memory delight

..

so at sunrise, with gasps

we become one again

and follow me you burn

simmering heat on shoulders

till the day is horizon nestled

..

your bright reminds me

you are not gone

merely crossed over

leaving me with moonlit melancholy

and the finite fears of a mortal mind

chemically prone to fantasy

and feckless conjecture

..

so let your rays reflect on my ice wintered self

and i in limbic state remain

your cyclic comfort cherish i will

in eternal, salutary refrain

My life as a play

i have lost my taste for the everyday

a maudlin, empty theatre play

scenes dehydrate…

the set walls slide away

and

dramatic briskness falls bland

exit directed by a lone stage hand

doors bolted

 

seeking solace instead

i seek a grander outdoor stage

my soul bindle wrapped tight

grasping firmly, this new page

so captivating a script

 

in which

I wander along barren sands

an enlightened journey to me

as ocean laps, rubbing stones to shine

a hand reaches ever gently for mine

and we walk

untethered to place

and time

us two, centre stage

under warm spotlight shine

The Diary

perhaps

I did walk a mile in your shoes

borrowed as you slept

your soles

mine to peruse

finding a hole

in my argument

and blistered egos

like the chafed, constricted toes

of this awkwardly penned prose

 

perhaps

I did lay open your words

splaying book spine

cracking

a page at a time

hearing what you said

not what you meant

now only to lament

the denied comprehension

that invites a heart’s dissention

clutching the diary

 you left behind

Horizon

tonight a final masterpiece

for you paint the sky with a divine touch

brushing watercoloured wisps

with fine sable tip

letting reflections fall

and wavelet mirrors enthrall

 

your fleeting exhalations roll  clouds

toward my horizon

yet I slip further away as the the world turns

momentarily grasping the sun

in my palm

oh, how it burns

 

then return to the place

where the sky kisses the earth’s jagged edge

my love dwelling in granite chasms

and shadowed crevice

for invertebrates

of a nameless kind

A branch’s tale

I sit amongst fallen leaves

achingly curled dry into final poses

over scattered shrivel of scarlet roses

the sun warmth now diminished

as my own

 

what of the diurnal promises of spring?

when I bent proud

grimacing through hail storm sting

just to feel the graces of your summer

 

resplendent in my naïveté

with buds this passion was born

till branch from tree

was

torn