The Magic of Snow Quartz

(first published by Atavic Poetry)

You sing a dissonant song to the waves
that wrinkles the sails of ships,
each note wind-whipped into the hollow
of seashells, suspended as a sound print.

You let the day swallow you whole,
and from its jaw hold the moon’s gaze,
you do not see moths flirt lamplight flickers
or gulls hover the bounty of the dunes.

You watch an ethereal mist descend,
people leave the Cirque de Nuit with halos,
while your hair becomes shadow-play
on the sea-wall, your fingers frozen.

As you sleep, your nightmares are written
on the canopy of the Big Top.
When you awake, you see only fog
and feel a pull at your solar plexus.

You watch bleak clouds circle sky
and do not notice the drama unfurl,
the rush of caramel and salt air
or the crisp leaves lift and swirl.

You have forgotten to forget,
until something the gypsy says at the tent
as you pass along the beach,
when she crosses a white stone into your palm.

 

All rights reserved.

Photo courtesy of Public Domain Pictures.

Listening

I talked all evening,
but you weren’t listening.
You did your usual thing –
looked up
every now and then,
said a word,
then I’d have to start again.

If I’d shouted
and made a bold display
you wouldn’t have heard.
You might have
made some remark
as though you had,
but you weren’t
listening.

My silence
from the balcony to the bed,
the touch of my hand
on your skin, the kiss
I gave you on your back –
you were listening then.

 

All rights reserved.

Photo courtesy of Public Domain Pictures.

Alchemy

The night pulsates darkness like a womb,
as midnight claws the crooked

alleyways to where moonstone stars
transform the bleak black sprawl

of sky with an exhibition.
In the shadow of night

you will find me searching
components of an elixir,

the aquae vitae, to prove alchemic
laws and spawn a transformation.

Yet, everything I touch seems amorphous,
formless – slips from my fingers.

All rights reserved.

Photo © David Vale

The Timeline of Five Years

(first published by Kumquat Poetry)

I curl in the chair with my Kindle
and learn how to date antiques
by lions paw, how hallmarks
give away an age. Eras gone
I cannot appreciate.

This year I started to tweet.
Five years ago Facebook
created a portal to my photos
and latest plays, updates –
mostly direct, but sometimes vague.

Sometimes I notice
the dates,
the staggered outline
in the timeline
and the gaps –

what I choose to leave out,
people and moments missed,
the hallmarks.

All rights reserved.

Photo: PublicDomainPictures.net.

Melancholy

Show me how melancholy magnifies
on the surface and reduces,
how it oozes from cookery, spills
from pages, slips from your Chardonnay,
how work resolves it when harbored
into twelve hour days, and returns
in the evenings when the shadows shorten.

Read about meditation, mountains, Tao
and taking seaside walks, read how chocolate
satisfies and heals, how yoga feels
charged from salutations to the sun,
glamping in a bright orange wigwam,
swapping black tea for ginseng.

Revive hobbies, parties, travels and the smile
of rhythmic feet, how you capture life
through lens, choose angles, try to find
sun-ripened brambles. Show me windmills,
sparkling seascapes, wild flowers –
now that you have shown me melancholy.

All rights reserved.

This poem has also been published online by Kumquat Poetry webzine and in the Sea of Ink anthology by Ink Pantry Publishing.

Photo of flowers © S Woodcock

By the River Seine

By the River Seine
our butterfly wings flutter
in multi-directional flight,
to every inlet and flower;
our heart chakras fused together.
This crimson painted padlock,
we lock to the railings
of Pont des Arts
and watch the key depart
into the shimmering waters.

By the River Seine
our bee wings hover
to taste the nectar,
to have honey pot
nine months later.
Our kisses slow like tantra.
Interlocked, we climb Montmartre,
to the café with smoke curling
by the Sacré-Coeur.

By the River Seine
your wasp wings brittle
in the sudden
chill of autumn.
Since I put life
under the microscope
all my cries are in vain,
I am uncradled,
uncushioned from the blow.

By the River Seine
I claw the chrysalis open
and strengthen my wings
on its empty shell.
‘Une table pour une’
at the café with smoke curling
by the Sacré-Coeur,
ready
to face Paris alone.

 

All rights reserved.

This poem has also been published online by Kumquat Poetry webzine and Ink Pantry Publishing.

Photo: PublicDomainPictures.net.