That Bed of Nails

I often wonder how many people fear the pillow at night, where their justifications might do battle with their residual conscience.

————————————————————–

Each reason

Every point

And the blankets

Of justification

 

Eased sleep

As he shivered

January

Morning

 

The excellent

Spreadsheet

Of bullets

Fired off

 

Cold

Like blood

Without

A heart

 

Turn right

By write

And absolved

For ever

 

A box

In the corner

Locked, wounded

Conscience

 

A bed won

For dreaming

And gloating

And victory

 

Each reason

Every point

And the blankets

Of justification

self-diagnosed omniscience

Over the years I have been fortunate enough to meet a number of people with very high opinions of the extent of their own knowledge and intellect.  This is an ode to them.


the persistent insistence

on being right

with self-diagnosed omniscience

so very entitled

 

me, my, mine

only me, only I

know all the answers why

 

the blindfolded ears

refuse to hear

anything or anyone else

 

my cosmic intellect

encompasses all knowledge

all wisdom

there is or can ever be

 

it says so on my door

the font eternal

whence all clever things

issue

 

I know best

better than you

oh, yes, I do!

Incomplete

That unfinished

Seeming no end

Those unspoken

Which we never send

 

For want of courage

With fear of risk

Remains undone

Ever on that list

 

Never vanishes

Always just there

Out of sight

Beyond compare

 

Faintly haunting

An itchy burr

Mostly ignored

The mind can whirr

 

Let’s procrastinate

For another year

It is not urgent

I’ll keep my fear

The Twilight Echo

That subtle imprint,

The etch

The sketch of him

 

Never saw the germ

Sneak under my skin

That gentle djinn

 

No showers or spas

Might lather away

Those twilight echoes

 

Nor would I want

 

His eyes tattooed me

His soul embraced

And it soothed

 

To be understood

And held so,

Caressed in tears

 

That profound

The meaning

A sublime

 

And none but I

Can tell

Willow

A summer evening sat on the back door step at Montgomery Farm..

From there I used to watch the willow with her moods and look at the plough constellation.

——————————————————-

the willow hangs still

leaves on a gallows,

she is pensive tonight

 

the proud rooster

senses the dusk

and returns to his cage

 

Norah the bat

soars in the pendant twilight

looking for mangoes

 

the bridge of sighs

blows smoke rings

perfect circles, of knowing

 

a fiery red tulip

seals up her lips

and crosses her legs

 

night falls on the grass

down, in the meadow,

feathering dusk

 

wondering of the dew

now so long forgotten.

how sweet, was its taste?

 

with comb now in hand

she pulls out

all of the knots of her life

 

an actuary of no

the cells so very forbidden

and , only by her

 

the willow hangs still,

leaves on a gallows.

she is pensive tonight …

“Haiku” of Birds

less than ten feet away

the blackbird gathers

the twigs unhurried

 

tiny house sparrow,

puffs up his chest

and sings triumphant

 

the collared dove

feels not a chain

and coos rhythmically

 

green woodpeckers

smack their heads

until their eyes see spots

 

the buzzard soars

harried by crows

crying out injustice

 

a carrion crow

caws out a destiny

while the jackdaw laughs

 

the blue jay flashes

a royal blue flag

leaving a memento

 

the rook leaves

his castle at knight

a stark soliloquy

 

the raven laughs

at human folly

up on vulture peak

 

a tawny owl

chills the blood

always at midnight

 

the red kite soars

whispering the angst

of an inner vision

 

a sparrow hawk

faster than lightning,

swoops electric

 

a golden eagle

sweeps the sky

cleansing the way

 

and the robin

calls upon the sun

for to make dawn

Quiet “Haiku”

Kate Bush wrote “50 Words for Snow”, I simply love how a fresh snowfall muffles everything. Out in the countryside it is even more excellent.


 

the hush of an Eskimo

whispers winsome,

felt dressings in the snow

 

the caress of rain

on grass verdant is

a most soothing tincture

 

even the silence

has no echo to it

and each second, sublimes

 

tense shoulders shrug

for the want of it

the yearn of so many, years

 

a calamity now calmed

with now no wind

puffing into sails

 

a feather caresses

as time ceases

any, audible ticks

 

cotton wool soft

a whispy cloud

wandering, still pensive

 

oh those decibels

of  the quiet

sound so very, loud

 

a heart pulses

but not in vein

to breathe yet, in winter

 

my willow tree

now, braids her hair

and coyly winks

 

and now the pillows

call so  pregnant

for my brow

 

soon the quiet

will pull up the duvet

close my ears…..

Cooking “Haiku”

it is snowing outside

peeling sprouts,

the layers of a season

 

bashful potatoes blush.

their red faces

surrender to nakedness

 

twelve sausages

now in a pan

oiled with summer’s scent

 

these slippery elvers

flow over the weir.

an olive branch bows

 

the world needs

an ointment, a salve

something virgin, and new

 

soon they will marry

the butters, now churned

with a little pepper

 

peasant fare

on a winter’s night

a sample of, the simple

 

the log store

understands emptiness

and so replenishes

 

now for some fire

to make a meal

handsome out of it

 

the alchemist stirs

and out the cauldron

there is food!!

Serenity “Haiku”

a heron stands

one leg in the reeds

he reaches for his oboe

 

a contented carp

blows bubbles

puckering his lips

 

a lotus unfolds

her petal wings

butterflies waft incense

 

a busy dragon-fly

is a rainbow

who caresses time

 

clear crystal ponds

reflect pure light

whiter than snow

 

a pendant drop

hangs from the gallows

of a moment

 

a ripple stretches

across a dewy pond

and yawns sleepily

 

a reed bends

in the harsh winds

which soon, too will pass

 

a moorhen dives

hungry for breakfast,

a croissant with butter

 

the spirit churns

all of the milk

to spread on toast

 

a hungry falcon

hovers in the wind

seeking a morsel

 

the rain falls heavy

the ducks rejoice

water off their backs

 

a rōnin waits

for he has no master

else his heart

 

he sits seiza

and watches only walls

for there, is wisdom.