Song Of The Sand

A grain of sand I did not own,
On a beach I did not know,
I kindled in my hand like sticks
Until it turned to blood and stone.
From stones there scattered
Seven pebbles, seven roots
Within the middle, and
From those roots did climb a devil;
And I did see there shoots of growth,
Of Time Above, and Life Below.

Skulldugerry and his mistress,
I have seen foul play;
A body in a brazier,
A human with no name.
They brushed their hair,
They drove to work,
Wedding planners,
Dividend perks;
We can only feel rain falling
When our eyes are blind as worms.

A bison-shaped cloud shifting
Dispersed the holiday crowds;
I was alone on the beach again
Wishing to breathe new life
Somehow, yes, through my hands,
But all that remained was the loss
Of the waves, and song of the sand.

Ode To A Parking Lot, No.2

Grief, do not disparage me,
Do not diminish my yearning
To observe the rites I will learn
In turn, by rote, just as oceans
Spurn the lode in mackerel bones
And whiting dreams and cod,
Fulfilling the needs in fishermen’s
Ganseys and hand-made
Tablecloths their wives
Once ironed, having washed,
On kitchen benches draped across,
Though sometimes a trawler
Or two were lost and the sea,
With blind unfeeling disbelieving
Reasons breeding in their peaks
And troughs, duplicitous sea,
Brought home only grief and loss,
Those I have known and those
I have not, as I cried on my own
At midnight in a parking lot.

My Dirigible Life

My future fears have never formed
From scientific findings;
Derisible angst inside me soars,
Dirigible life’s kept grounded.

I have not survived an earthquake,
I have not lived through wars,
Where the breezeblock innocence
Becomes a flooded door.

So fears veer to the abnormal,
Stretched by days alone;
My therapist said I’m hormonal
In a cobbling I didn’t own.

Suffering always flushes men out,
Short of battle or bliss;
More freedom’s in the evening skeins
Than anything I might miss.

Amethyst

I miss those frosty mornings,
Snowfall on a ridge;
Icicles on the awnings,
Amethyst laps the bridge.

I’m not for city dwelling,
My heart is with my love;
But she resides in times gone by
While half a soul’s above.

And so I miss those winters,
For winters warm as this;
Where we walked a lakeside path,
And found a moment’s bliss.

Talus

I’m sweeping up your worries
They’re going in to bags,
I walked a week to market
And slept beneath the crags.

I heard that there are traders
Who buy and sell our fears;
They hide behind disguises,
They whisper in our ears.

I’m sweeping up your sorrows,
Flung from a coastal talus;
The market’s shutting down,
Love is now the ballast.