To M. W.
Nighthawks, nighttime, look at them strolling along,
Trying to drag off a long gone summer,
While weary old men chat away their time,
And her soul is a castaway marooned on the seashore
Where she rakes over same and same questions,
What ‘s left behind, why an ancient hunger
Keeps hassling the sky-
Yet life looks ablaze, days breathe,
Or fly through the air, her lymph
When she sets trees free, as no shadows,
No books gave a warm welcome to her mind,
Only a reckless light fighting God on a first date,
And snarling at you to welcome sudden births-
So, don’t look at her in dismay,
You thwarted snow, and missing winters, right?
And sad tales only turn out if you settle the score
With forests dispersing women,
And dissolving lights at dawn-
But you, my burning bush, why didn’t you keep her fire?
But you, my wind, why did you throw it to the underwood?
And what’s that, a rush thrusting sharp trees?
Now run against the wind, my soul,
Anytime shadows arise from blue water, or sky,
End it for good with green lights,
Can you see them in the house,
Daring the cold, devoid of a shelter and its black-
Such weird shapes, sure, but who are they,
Maybe your friends? Whatever, they’ve got no wings,
Nor can they fly against the wind to send her back
To a secluded Eden ever the reckless gambler
She bet but lost.
*******
Light at the start, are you joking? To S.
The sky’s great at hiding things,
Your cathartic pleasure all of a sudden,
Elusive lovers, maybe an unrequited love
Your lot in a word-
Luckily the wild force from clouds and waves
Morphs into words sometimes,
When poetry starts breathing in her mind
Frail like paper flowers, and no green,
So you are shouting at him
‘Got fresh limbs or meteors?
In case the averse sky looked askance,
But it’s just a bloody waste of time,
Much better to rush, and give lakes and oceans
A deeper blue, and mind the meadows,
As they might set limbs and green ablaze-
Don’t worry, dear soul, he hasn’t the foggiest
As to your final getaway, maybe the water,
The sky, or meadows, even a tent in the desert
Where you’ll find shelter,
Or break down, where demise might untangle
Hidden seeds, so who cares if she looks so frail,
As he’s stolen away from books, green, prophets,
Now it’s your turn, my soul,
To dig up light, or drop out when demise
Keep stalking women, too bad you trusted her,
And the many times when she skipped to mention
She was the other woman in a tricksy threesome,
And was shaking any time your stares hit
The grass in love on a Saturday morning,
God sitting next to her, deeply engrossed
In dark thoughts, and the grim feeling
That ‘if’ is such a lovely word, like a trickster
It can conjure up a prophet and some renegades,
Who feel soul stays alive only if you keep her inside-
Bit by bit, and in a deepest silence-
You done yet, God? See, grass might die.
*******
To S.
Please act cool, moon, don’t scream blue murder,
The first light of the morning is here,
And warped comms numb days, and diaries-
‘Cause you can’t see her desire in blue
Uncertain whether to lie with fire,
Or a distant laughter in the night,
As the only fire is hailing from candles
And maybe it’s your life to challenge it-
So don’t waste your time, soul,
Just leave, as first light cares for you
Only when you’re gone, you and your rooms,
And never trust heaven’s greed,
This month too warm for winter,
Where the hair is setting ablaze
Limbs in a kiln and time
Anxiously awaits the firing of the clay,
As he’s setting up a personal exhibition:
The impervious black of the earth,
A sand that won’t get involved,
The water of dismay already seared-
Such bloody mess, sure, but don’t kid yourself
You can relight waste, the hoarded dross
Of seasons skies limbs,men who write,
And by a sad alchemy of the years
Even swear they are in love with unsayable shadows,
The unlikely splendour of a start,
Mad air from rejecting windows-
Warped comms again?
Maybe yes if once you hounded the moon, the sky
When they would haunt a spare soul,
But in the end they didn’t choose her,
‘Cause her silent dreams always skip out
After dispersing the undergrowth, the hired storm barriers,
The night standing still at cobalt corners,
And delirious colours shouting ‘no use for you’-
No need for unworthy souls, so they just discarded her.
*******
To S.
Please call it life, this endless spark
Where God gives a bit of his time
To grass on Saturday morning,
And stares from a seething light
Force animals to silence-
Sure, but the thing is the moon is in shambles,
As no-one minds the days, that cyanotic blue breaking down
In a wrath sowing seeds of loss
While women smile and men hint to you that
Nights, or books won’t give you shelter,
Nor will the sky, the sea, those wary right-wingers
Who frown on changes, always stay the same-
No problems, OK, if she goes on breathing
Among boulders or climbers you just stop her,
Stop gathering from the street the shreds
Of unfathomable lights, maybe chance it with God
To get a tent in the desert, and only then
Those seeds will show up,
Nevermind if she looks so frail,
Long gone are the days she would nick
Books, prophets, the underwood, and loss
Just to spicy up a life where her soul withdrew
From women going to ambush her-
Is that you, God, are you done yet?
Ok, but please stay in touch, stay tuned, God,
While she’s sitting next to her, just rest your eyes
On that vibrant woman in love,
Maybe the grass in love, maybe her soul
Who can’t trust summer, nor demise.
*******
To S.
‘And how are you?’ she enquires,
But no answer from rain, clouds,
Waves in a seaside hamlet,
As they’re going on business as ever,
Faithful to themselves, always the same,
While their blue is a taste waiting to be unearthed-
Shoo them elsewhere, lead them astray
To Hecate sowing her seeds
Among scattered comets, messy creatures-
Or maybe keep them with you,
They’re starving for your tales-
And you stop showing off, unworthy heaven,
Stop asking for attention, as your blue isn’t keen
On troubles, children, feuds in her womb,
That hard blue light will halt your soul,
And fill your days with a good dose
Of cold stares in your house-
But don’t you know food tastes bland without them,
Or names written on a whim,
Ambushing you from behind so you give back
What you nicked from hourglasses, clocks,
Time, and an eavesdropping foliage-
So, stop it, blue, you and your dystopian tales,
Bring back the missing, those throngs of clouds
At odds with an abrading sun, and lights hiding away
From unearthed books, emergency alerts,
C’mon, she’ll sort them out in the basement,
Her hunted hands buried away
Lest they reach out to you under no pretext,
Maybe the sky, maybe a soul
Fed up with books, deserted rooms,
Words she grasped to shun a silence scraping the green
Off grass, the dishevelled stars unable to hide
Away from her, a slant shape of light,
The much-prized prey to a faltering glow from volcanoes.
*******
