The stream (all workshops)
craft me with talents
all mulitiplicity and speed
your mind jumping frets of
indexes
and that bold beautiful wheel
of love turning bright
in its wicked flames
in this cold years January
with frozen fragrance
of morning caught
round us
chimney smoke
traffic exhaust
and the sweet
river smell of
water turned underground
in their concrete
runs
and I wonder
what it is
that moves
the paces between
us
Just give me an aperture
and a shutter speed too
with a bright viewfinder
and a good lens or two.
I’ll take some pictures
in fact quite a few
I will almost certainly
take a picture of you.
But not just anyhow
I like to take my time
It has to be a bit special
a moment frozen in time.
I like to make a picture
something special you see
Not just any old thing, but
a photograph made by me.
I knew the river's smell
long before concern
and government control
cleaned the filth from
it's brown mud of water
choked by centuries misuse
and human defecation,
when on nights where
chilled air met warm water
thick fog rose mingling
with the smoke of countless
chimmneys spewing remnants
of burning coal,
and stench of sulphur,
sewage,
and decaying fish
mixed with stink of rotting mud
and seaweed
caught the throat
in grip of lung-heaved nausea.
It's mid-day and finds me out
easing down a dim game trail
wind's whisper has begun to shout
I wish I was still young and hale
Loud squeaks from tree limbs rubbing
in pines and oaks grown close together
they sway giving themselves a drubbing
in this blustery winter weather
The world in gray and brown and dun
except for the somber evergreens
trees dissect a faded sun
as a nearby nuthatch preens
Softer than a pillow
pinker than its lace
your lips comfort me
with a silken caress
Beauty You Say
Is Skin Deep
In my own experience
Studying the lives of so many folks,
I have clearly seen
Those who have regular sex
Including solo,
Have glowing skin.
Go see the guys face
And
His 59 years old wives’
Glistening at ninety four
And
They could deliver still
What will creams do?
Except make your beauty still
There’s a man who sleeps in the cold at night
on the bench down by the lake in the park.
His pillow, a bag he carries, of the bits he owns
just his jacket, to keep him warm in the dark.
Who was he, before he fell into this way of life
and is there someone who loved him and more.
Did he have a car, a house, a job of importance
was his life something special and happy before.
You were always there to welcome me, if I came to call
and I’d reach out to touch you, as you sat there in the hall.
Happiness was yours, just watching the children play
just like sleeping and eating, an important part of your day.
When I sat in the chair, you'd climb upon my knee
and with those bright eyes of yours, turn to look at me.
After a while you'd climb back down, heading for the door
going outside into the night to explore a little more.
`
Part demon, part angel,
your gaze draws me nigh.
Part animal, part divine;
the celestial hosts sigh.
Doubts leak like a broken tap,
assurances cloud the sky.
Drip and drop to fill the gap;
your balmy words can't dry.
An easel for pigments to trap;
row by row hung from a vine.
Libation pressed flesh and sap;
A bloodied cudgel rests supine.
`
days later
days later they
found me.
I said I
would never
do it
again,
but I get
to edit.
the staff
of life is not
bread,
it is fear,
but I
get
to edit,
my
dear.
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