Beautiful

     

Beautiful shadows

fall at angles

that remind me

of you, leaning in close

under a pale, orange moon-cast glow,

on the boughs of the trees,

your whispers

were not so different

to the sound of their

leaves, growing spartan,

in the warm Autumn breeze,

fluttering like kisses

and enchanting heartbeats, against

ribs,

seeming broken,

as twigs, underfoot,

snapping, with pressure, and

weight; the same way something shattered

across your face

every time I called 

down

grace and prayed your name in

the still

of night;

filled your senses: your scent

and sight, enraptured,

until your iris

turned black,

deeper and softer

than the velvet back of a

silent

moth to a flame's leaping light,

burning with a gentle crackle, bright, in

crisp

and empty air;

late - a bonfire, a wood burner,

a taxi queue...

the hot smoke of your breath

in my hair. 

    

Not Beautiful

     

I, am not beautiful; not that way, not

to open my eyes and wake

to a day in yours; adored; every

part important

to the glory

of a sunrise, or the sinking of light in an azure sky.

My eyes,

are not, the thing

you watch 

the flames 

dance across,

nor the softness of my skin,

a cloak for you, against the autumn breeze - 

what you see, is not the glow 

of my soul, in those embers,

not the burning of my being in the 

crackle of the blackened

wood.

     

I, am not beautiful - though my 

heart is a rose, for you,

given,

ever-perfect,

crimson bloom;

you gaze upon it, in silence,

crush it,

and smell its perfume,

and turn away;

not exquisite enough, to stay

in your hands, 

or be called your own - only

a rose, 

that shrinks and depletes,

held dangerously close to the damaging

heat; that shrivels

with the searing 

of cold words and

averted eyes; 

    

still,

it struggles, in faith, to survive.

     

I, am not beautiful.

Will you notice, before it dies? 

   

The World Has Changed

    

I sit down to write it,

because if do not, capture 

how the sunlight streams so silently  

through the kitchen window

this morning; like all other things, 

all other moments - it will pass.

And it may not be forgotten,

or end; in the way some things cannot,

but be filed,

it will fade,

like the frost on distant roof slates,

and I must, 

for as I wash the cheeseboard

to the scent of wet pine,

and coffee;

an orange glow, rises,

over the hills and chimney pots, and the world

has changed:

minutely,

but resolutely,

(a blackbird calls his mate)

beautifully;

the world has changed. 

   

24.04.21 A Saturday Afternoon at Roche Abbey; Spring.

    

No great wonder, that a heart is buried here

for to steal a thousand,

would tax you none

rising arches of shimmering white, reach long

into whisping blue

still-silence is broken, not by you, and

the rushing, babbling waters of your veins;

but by those who yet remain, behind you,

in the aisles of time.

Bushels of corn, your transepts' lines,

prematurely terminate before the skies you once 

stretched 

to touch.

It is all to do now to dream and look at 

Heaven's umbrella,

once upon a vaulted cellar and 

a clerestory you tell

so well in ribs and bosses,

once upon more beautiful voices,

that filled your bare bones with song.

Long, 

now

since the points were set 

in stones;

since chapters were heard

and read, and the breaking of

bread graced your altars with devotional crumbs;

kissed today, by only the sun and steps 

of a shiny-backed

black beetle 

who is surely, running late...

You wait, as the afternoon's heat abates,

still shelter to offer and solace

to take, for those who will stay beneath

your arcades;

more pieces of hearts are buried;

shadows lengthen,

and time fades away. 

    

Homeland

    

What countries ask of kings,

is rarely all the same,

re-population never to yours, the aim, of

any of those wild foreign games. In fact,

she wasn't sure 

she was unselfish enough

to plant seeds and tend, in any fresh plough.

Well now,

you supposed at her desires,

without any consultation as to what really

lit fires, and beacons, on her cliffs

and throne 

what it was that trully made you feel 

like home. Really she asked only,

that you stayed;

through her mists and temperate storms

that passed

just as eagerly as you wiggled your toes 

in her fresh spring grasses,

and moth-kissed her skin

on a summer's night.

      

You see, other countries 

might have demanded 

sight

of their future selves,

and a tiny crown,

in your eyes; but she;

was an island - 

an endless vacation,

yours to own, a tiny nation (of two),

for only the price 

of a heart,

and the holding of an equal hand; 

given over;

as a passport, a devoted citizen

of she,

your chosen homeland.   

Safe

    
I told you I thought sometimes,
perhaps you said words,
that only kept you safe? Ones you knew
I'd put away,
and cherish,
somewhere by my heart? Not the other-truth
I'd pick apart and offer to the
sky-gods, in your name?
Words that kept me believing,
the same, stone reasons,
of precious,
and grace?
I came to know your abashed
face: the one splashed across
with crimson innocence;
a cyclical dance - the one
that began
the whole thing;
    
let me put dead swallows
back
in their nests, and ghostly,
they will sing
of how they fell;
us as well; or you, or I,
sometime tellers
and believers of knights'
tales;
an unskilled spy
and the happiest girl in the world.
I only had to meet your
eyes,
and it was all an adventure,
all cherry pies and aeroplanes,
twinkling lights
and flayed-open veins;
raw, and honest;
and how could
I ever doubt it?
from the soul; what was?
what is,
without it?
   

Cloud-Gazing

   
Lie down. Lie still. We will cloud-gaze;
so bright is the buttermilk moon - 
she lights up hearts and vague dragonflies 
and feeds you glitter 
from a silver
spoon of memory;
rocks washed smooth
by a wave that calls your soul;
come back
come back, to castles,
and empty, sand-filled
holes of swirling, foaming sea,
reflecting light of stars...
from galaxies away, they know
and imprint 
your heart on me,
and mine on you - we two,
from shadows hew,
at midnight, on the beach,
cloud-gazing;
caressed, by a yellow
half-moon.
   

The Other Hand

    

Maybe these kisses would land, better,
on the other hand,
while you show me the scars where rocks and
landscapes, have scraped
the depths of you? Have been the agony
and life-giving
breath
of you… Softer than silk and roughly
hewn; my under-honoured soldier, and his
every day wounds, of growing,
and living,
recounted –
   
all these marks,
his adventure’s bounty,
and beauty,
beyond measure and doubt – let me cover
each one, with my hungry mouth, and hot gasps,
on skin;
I will exhale fire
and have it sink in, until your soul burns with passion and
grace, each map of past, I want
to trace, with my tender,
smoothing thumb,
   

ahead of sweet lips and caressing tongue; drawing circles
on my favourite part
of you;
the story of your march,
to me, this moment; my fortress of light;
where a quiet warrior
may spend his nights, in arms and
all ecstasies – deeper and deeper, wider than
seas – show his cards and throw defences aside.
For here, the King of Hearts,
need not always
be a knight. 
   

Sunday Morning

     
Pressed against me, in my kitchen
on a Sunday morning;
there is only coffee, and time; no doubt.
Fall on me, come breathe your soul
out; ecstasy out loud,
risen up
and laid down
without the soft-veiled fight,
cried out
in a river
of viscose light
from all our universal stars;
show me,
one by one,
your newest scars - 
tender,
that I have not 
seen;
let me kiss them, accept them,
like they have always been, for you
cannot
ever 
be changed:
your insides
bear
my name,
written through and side to side;
your crimson,
my blue skies,
we are bound by the glorious purple;
a beautiful love
welcome passion-burden, 
raw truth - 
cut me open,
my insides read: one word,
only: you.
     

Where Is Summer?

   
I looked up at the sun today,
and asked him his mind.
He met my eyes.
And sighed.
Then drew the clouds
to hide behind, and went back
    
to his solitude;
unmoved,
he turned his face away, night's cool replacing
heat of a day,
he just could not face.
      
I chased
and challenged him, why he did not shine?
That it cannot be winter
all the time;
there must be warmth and life; his soft caress,
his touch on my skin through a summer dress, his whispered,
golden breath
falling tender
on the back of my neck, 
twisted sheets, beaded sweat, and his
burning
of my soul...
    
He crumpled then and rolled
the clouds
in
thicker, 
blacker,
quicker and quicker; freezing raindrops, began to fall.
    
I looked up
at the sun, a moment,
appalled - and I understood;
      
took down my umbrella
and pushed off my hood; to be willingly cried sodden,
and kissed,
in the ensuing flood; arms open,
without a single
shiver.
    
It was not that he would not try.
    
He would again glint, off the waters of that river,
created and gushing by.
The sun yearned,
for it to be summer,
just, as much as I. 
     

My Favourite Part

     
If I tell you that this
is my favourite part,
know it is because there, I feel your
heart-beat, and your soul
speak to me,
feel you tighten on the edge
of an ecstasy calling;
a dawn, and a sunset,
a sky falling, and the stars bereft now
of a moment
that was written in them,
as it soars to new galaxies, twists
and bends, in trails
of comets,
burning through blackness, on its own
trajectory of dizzying, colourful happiness – this
is the place,
you let me in –the torsion of muscle,
the softness of skin,
on skin,
and I feel your lips curve,
without ever needing to hear a word or a sigh,
out loud,
here we are lost, beyond the
clouds of Heaven, where tender passion calls;
roars, and begs the rush
of a waterfall of light; a glistening ribbon
that curls and binds
you inside me,
and I
in you…hot mouth, caressing too
deep
to miss, as I bury my face, in my favourite part
of you , to kiss. 

Details

    
The devil
is in the details though, you see,
the dove-tails, and the ways
you are
with me, locked together, like strange-cut keys, and turning,
as a puzzle -
a monkey tree;

tangled, entwined,
and holding vines – I am yours and you
are…mine and borrowed,
this, I know,
details…details etched in sand
beneath my toes, hidden with care
and warmed by sun,
washed by rain, those details come
again to haunt us,
time against time: ‘what’
and ‘when’, and I push them aside: three from ten blackbirds
baked in a pie -
they sing the truth of our star-bitten sky,

and it matters not,
the ‘if’ or ‘why’,
so long as I smile
and I look
in your eyes.

     

The Passion

    
Here's a long story,
a glorious rapture descending - 
vines creeping, into veins and blood,
foliate bosses and hood-moulds 
crenellating,
the doors to Narnia's portal. They left my finger
hopelessly trailing,
over,
time
immortal. The long shadow of a broken sceptre,
ground beneath:
the bone collector, shaft of dust,
through long windows thrown
lighting wildflowers impossibly grown from the
ruins of matins,
prime and nones, 
a mystery extant speaks of all
that is gone in the wind,
the rain:
in the unholy fires,
the crashing down of celestories and 
spires, and I wandered amongst them; their gritty texture,
whispering of lauds,
compline and vespers, a scratch in
the buttress, striking the time: eyes to heaven and glitter
falls down my spine, still, and the doves that call,
from the remnant of a crossing,
emboss my heart and spread wings in my chest - 
where once the vestments 
were plain,
I see a myriad of colours overlain:
as a pale hand in a silken glove.
And it was here, I recall, my head began to spin with it.
It was here
I fell 
in love. 
  

Inspiration

   
(Poetry challenge by The Leeds Savage Club - includes or inspired by music or lyrics)

Moments of melting, fingers in dirt,
sky-rolls, and breaths, and meeting
of the first days of summer, 
in wet-heat and 
joy: every little thing
is gonna be
alright.
    
You-thirst, and light bursts,
behind
silent nights. Stars and sun-kisses and 
gentle moonlight sands,
with fire
on the rocks: I'm gonna be 
where the lights
are shining on me.
    
Hoof-prints in the wind, and
smeared in dust,
laughter and tomorrow's
day-old rust of decision,
and trusting knowledge
of past;
lean on me,
when you
are not strong.
    
Hold on,
and coffee
on a Saturday morning, cliff-tops
and slow afternoons of dawning 
truth that shapes clouds
and holds hands at canter;
just be mine,
be mine.
    
Rum and ice-rocks, and the 
edges of never, the drumbeats of 
hearts
on the verge of 
forever-remember as 
night calls them home, 
without thinking:
I walk the line. 
    
I follow its thread
to wherever the bread
crumbs and candy 
shall snake and lead; an inky-pink seahorse,
Pegasus,
a unicorn,
and me. All follow the rainbow;
for there ain't
no sunshine
when she's gone,
and I guess 
you'd say
we were mind-dancing all along. 
   

Full Circle

   
"All in time," said a whispering wind, as it
passed me by on a length of
gold string, floating, beyond a morning's slow rise...
"...all at the twist and the turn
of a tide, where the demons will fear to go."
  
Hot sunlight through glass
cast an exquisite glow, on the cobwebs
where they tangled,
as flies, and they could not follow,
and all at once, I saw tomorrow in the mirror
of eyes, and sweet tinges of rust,
  
and all the stars gathered
amongst white, swirling dust, to etch with a finger,
silver doves,
and the touch of a hand
was surely enough, to send me crashing
to my childhood's knees;
  
I was covered in ivy-shade
and honeybees, as I wiped away a world
I had known: I surrender all the days of a life untold,
to most, but the cherished, unknown,
  
and standing in the safest of circles,
I confess,
right or wrong, I am home.
   

The Story

    
Here is, I suppose, a very long story,
though the chapters last 
mostly nights,
and mornings, and if you read the pages 
all crumpled together,
many years go by, a fable of forever...I was never
without you, my soul never separate,
my spirit never
less
temperate than it is 
in this tale, and your arms;
a soul-doctor takes oath
to do no harm and I see none, where the world
would see much - nothing wrong with this 
moonlight-touch and the magic that follows us
still,
stolen, silent; not a will, but a must and a need 
indulged,
red letters all divulged on a scrap quickly thrown
in the flames...
come...I'll make you, forget your name, again, with 
this breath on your skin...
here is a long story, that you and I,
over and over,
begin.
  

Strange Tale

   
You could call it a strange tale,
wherever you came from, for it seemed I turned
around one day to
the sound of a distant song that you were singing
on a tree branch
somewhere high, and all at once
I could see nothing
but
the colour
of the sky when my eyes first found you,
and the deeper soul of yours; hear nothing but my beauty
where once were only flaws and cracks so many, time fell still and lost,
so great had been my sacrifice,
the giving and the cost of what had gone before,
the things I'd let them take,
so deep had been my Excalibur at the bottom of a
haunted lake, that I was certain,
such strength would never return,
but fingers interlaced with yours, to smoulder and
to burn became my natural state:
my morning and my night,
your tiger to my lioness, flames licked beneath
moonlight reflecting
on the sea,
all full where once was void, to leap at stars
and then be free in waves and foam,
in ecstasy and joy.
   
And then to scratch, upon the rocks
and bleed, you made me show you,
my every wound
and mark,
and told me amidst my shame, they were
amour pieces of courage
that
not ever had been scars:
and you stopped my heart and pointed,
how dark the sky had grown above,
and reached into the lake with
a fist of iron love - you drew out Excalibur,
and handed him to me;
'I never saw
a knight more worthy,'
you whispered
on the breeze.
    

Burning

   
A flame inside her,
and a light, like mine, with her arms around his
neck, and her world 
in his eyes that see nothing, but the way that
she winds,
hips, like a serpent, as she twists 
and grinds to
a beat, that only they feel, 
deeper than one,
that rises
through the steel, of the table legs
beneath my soft glow,
something that pulls them as they ebb
and flow, again, the way I've watched them do,
in their moment together,
just you, you...lost in music, not around 
but within, an all-consuming,
intoxicating thing, that fills
this whole place, with their heat,
vibrations like thunder and the strike of her feet,
dancing,
as I do, in a door-draft,
foreheads together 
they smile and laugh like they don't
have a care or a bother,
nothing beyond 
the euphoria of one another,
nothing past
secret touches of skin, fitting 
together, as a queen
and a king who seems
the sun,
and her moon,
nothing else...just you, you...and they shine,
like a million stars,
a succubus fairy and the pirate,
of her heart,
rocking to crescendo 
on their waves, in the dark,
they light up the night and oblivious, the bar...melting, burning
like we do;
a candle in a jar.  
   

Sheet Space

 

This silent space at the edge of life,

somewhere between, the sleep & twilight, when all

of existence is questioned and slight,

that is where the exquisite dwells; wrapped and bound

with every cell, breathed into being by

the rushing in shells, collected

from a distant

shore… Now, more

than ever before,

a dream-scape in sand and these sheets,

entwined across the hips of sleek, and salted,

summer skin,

the sound of heartbeat, drawing

in, and the scent of pleasures just spent;

paid like pennies for candy floss,

sweet, and soft and tickled across, tender

and sun-caressed curves, moving just as

graceful as

the fluttering,

early birds, so fresh,

and glistening,

like morning dew;

a long embrace denies, the sunrise-golden hue of the horizon,  

the halo cast aloft…

No matter, in night

and devilish things,

we are still too lost.

    

Between The Stars

 

It existed,

between the stars, they said,

empty,

and full

of not much,

void and simple,

time imprinted, at the end of ever

being.

It

was

unseeing, they claimed,

blind, and deaf, and dumb,

a lonely hole, unlit, un-speaking,

no mouth,

no ears,

no tongue.

But you and I, looked up through night,

and saw the stars were not selfish

with light, and the moon,

she was

more generous

still,

she shone across its vast expanse, as if she had

a room

to fill with glow, and gentle haze,

the whole world

of living could see,

and she seemed to cast a gaze,

a moment,

down, at you, and me, and all that space -  

through-out the blackness bright

 - what swam between

the stars,

was filled with love that night,

gentle, pale, and beautiful,

the whole world’s evening sight,

was a beckoning vision

cast by souls, beyond the chains

of life,

they moved between the stars

on beams,

of future and

forever, reminding us that

distance does not, negate being together in time

nor fast in truth,

no circumstance too much,

as they reached across dimensions,

and we stretched our fingers out to touch

them all

with tenderness,

and in unison,

exult and mourn,

ever glancing at the crimson of, the fast-encroaching

dawn;

a time we knew,

letting go was due, of visitors

from another place; a time we made

ourselves safe,

in a castle built of arms.

Wrapped in calm, tear-stained face to mine,

as they receded,

across the  livid sky;

you rested your weary head a time,

and I whispered:

“it was only a gift…”

And there, was born, a new morning,

on our soul-dance,

and a kiss.