Camels resting in the Wadi Rum Desert, Jordan. I took this shot in December 2016 before we got to ride on them.
The slimmest volume can hold the heaviest world.
The weakest signal can reach the strongest shoulder.
The rockiest path can find the calmest shore.
The hardest seat can balance the most fragile soul.
So yes, this blackened heart will face the brightest Light.
When the throat is straitened
and each weeze a corrosive churn.
My eyelashes become mallets
Pegging my sight down.
Every raspy word lifts
Like steam in your cauldron
Boiling and reacting and
The only way we can to ourselves.
We’ll collect the remains
And archive the strains
But my mind will forget
As my body witholds.
And my brain will smile
At new seasons
Forget the old, forget the current.
The future is definite so hold it
Even though my breath can’t catch
Up. And I’ll still lie.
I’ll still lie.
I’ll still lie.
Reaching the quarter.
The century references dig
in its depth is death.
No lights and abundance
We reached a pair of decades and
rushed for more.
Hated the past you.
Hated the you of now.
And hate the you in death.
Nothing makes you an angel.
Mold and plasma till
memories give you heart and smile.
Depth of the grave.
Depth of your human self.
Hate how it’ll change for you and for you and even you too. I’d
Again and again and again.
but this is expandable
this is tissue
this is just. Only not just.
this is talking over the head
this is words gone missing
this is me.
And this me is tired
or calendars that mess up
and groups that add up to
Spinning ideas and
that pay too much for a human like face
and socially accepted manners.
This me says delete the days and
bring back the halls
of honest home.
(On a brighter side note: The picture I’ve added to this post is from my trip to Chatsworth House yesterday. So very amazing.)
Words tapping away
days drawn in a sweep
markings made and
remember, hawks kneeyow and
sing as claws hold, hold.
The release of age
promises but one checked out
some none and some so many.
A clear sky to the stain of sod
caught in a new world, a world ignored
tested in depth
measurements and toil given and gotten.
Clutched so hard
forced to move upsidedown
trapped doors and archives for
murkier dissent, gems rare and
we but dwellers of dungeons
Praying for higher and fragrance and space
alone to answer and alone to see
blue eyes wait watching
cry, cry now
may we never need the waiting room
On the bus again.
Nose running leaking making me drown,
Sides and back all clenched in pain.
Never cry aloud or shriek or howl
It’ll be over soon.
Each stop and start a language of shakes
No humming or soothing croon
Just clenching at each bash and bump it makes
Waiting for my final jerk
Though it be seconds before that’s gone too
For the roof and rules and runs of work
I’ll hang my time and avoid that loo.
These days are same.
Until I hurt in back and nose.
This lumpy, wet dizzying game
From where few have ever rose.
A section of my growing personal poetry collection.
The thing with my reading of poetry is that I do not have fixed readings. My ideal poetry book is a sickly thin paperback written (and at time self published) by unrecognisable poets and play writes. Those slim volumes that amount to no mass attention, yet often speak is the most brilliant of ways to me. I find that they often give the term
hidden gem a whole world of tangible meaning.
However, until I find more “gems”, here are a list of poems and plays I look forward to reading one day…
Howl by Allen Ginsberg The Complete Collected Poems by Maya Angelou
Beowulf: A New Translation by Seamus Heaney
Jerusalem by Jez Butterworth
Mojo by Jez Butterworth
The Skin of Our Teeth by Thornton Wilder
The History Boys by Alan Bennet
The Last Night of the Earth Poems by Charles Bukowski
Cuckoo Calling: A Book of Verse for Youthful People by E.V.Rieu
The Flattered Flying Fish and Other Poems by E.V.Rieu
Love & Misadventure by Lang Leav
The Prophet by Khalil Gibran
Collected Poems by Sylvia Plath
And I cannot express how
desperately I want to own, hold and devour Beat Poets by Carmela Cuirara.