Haiku #491

491.

Only you could see
An explosion of roses
You created in me.

A Tuscan Sunset

Love danced
On a terrace in Tuscany,
Panacea and a panopoly,
Not of a clunky bronze
Cuirassier’s
Arrow-riddled armour
For defending hearts
Flintlock futures
Penetrated easily, no;
Etymologies discarded
And I deferred the word
To verse and cursive
Arrangements of Love,
The fruits of Spring’s
Labour cascaded
Through your arteries
As remedies for writers’
Journals, and they
Gave it a name,
Writer’s Block,
For their
Blank pages were as
Sphinx-like
And eternal as the
Unblinking eyes
Of a glaring of cats.

So I write for you,
Remembering the extent
Of the scent and the sight
Of olives, peppermint
And citrus oils,
All excited and
Heightened
The senses for
Your hair unbridled with
A Tuscan fire of oranges,
Imbued me
With new romantic
Prophesies.

Primavera skies,
A parabolic shift
Under the cupolas
And blissful
Wisteria witnessing
As we kissed.
Sunset’s backdrops recanted,
We waltzed
With perfect timing
Over the catacombs
Of what we once had,
But never could return.

Eleventh Sonnet

Love you suffused me, such measures outpoured
For my soul’s carafe of old dusty clay,
Your immortal drink surpassing Time’s cord,
I lay back and sipped from the brink of May.
Spirits inveigled, delighted we teased,
Casting adrift with a parasol shade,
Love’s wine’s inundated ewers and eased
The hollow vessel, with grapes coloured jade.
I’m intoxicated; let years slumber;
Form’s commandeered and you’ve nourished my soul,
Close all weirs from West-Wales to the Humber,
I cannot return to Lands of the Toll.
The reasons for emptiness you revealed,
Your Love, like lava, inside me is sealed.

 

Ekcha Rubdizô

Layers upon layers
Like sedimentary strata,
Then all of a sudden
We find ourselves
Out of reach of the arms
Of those who crafted with
Sandstone and chalk;
This is just my example.

We set sail with deliberations
Exempt from sense for
The infamous whirlpool,
Regardless of rumours,
Regardless of her
Layers upon layers
Of teeth with limpets bleeding,
Emboldened by newness
Of youth and cordite
Stored in wooden tubes,
The viewer and the viewed,
We preached to the priests
Who refused to immolate
A sheep with swallowed rue.

An inverse plume
Of drowning hues,
There are no songs there,
No shanties; no grebes
Or aquiline sea-portents;
Our waterlogged thoughts
Are dissolved of fantasies
And Poseidonic prayers
That enriched our years
In tireme training
Like flares lighting up
Underwater caverns
And lantern-thoughts
Iridescent as herring
In the cranial Mediterranean
Crevasses of monk-seals,
Dreaming on their rocks
Of squid and of molluscs.

I pulled the plug
And a whirlpool vortex
Of washing-up water
Rejoined a greater creation.
Oleaginous bubbles
Swelled like the fur on the back
Of the duck-hunting dog
Bred for swimming,
Or like the cumulonimbus
Over the fens, heralding
Mid-spring rains soon,
And I knew then from the patterns
Bled through my pen,
And through those clouds shaped like
Three hearts in a cuttlefish exhumed,
The certainty of storms by noon.

Ode To May

The outside world thins,
As still as a painting,
A ceiling fan is spilling secrets
Without waiting
For interrogations
From daylight’s detectives,
Who pursuing will strive
To arrest and detain
The tails of life
Without ending,
Much like priests
But without overpayment,
And never successful.

The torsos of sinners
And chess for beginners,
Sweat drips on to a bishop,
Diagonal moves and although
The air is thinner
A nation exhales
Over mythic travails
With flags and balloons
And bunting, but I am not one
For hunting the hart of the past
To splay its bludgeoned carcass over
A diminishing present.

Cigarette-end days, hot ashes,
Swimming pool bans and
Dead roadside pheasants;
Trays of unaddressed fears unstamped;
An empty, drowsy watering can,
It’s years since I made resolutions
Because I do not trust myself
To keep their sacred seedlings safe,
And I do not trust dogma or customs;
The politicians appear like
Ice cream vendors on television
Misselling again,
Though broadcasters would have us think
That more believable are the men
Wearing patriotic ties.

Oxygen contracts like a dowager’s eye,
And if I am not mistaken
I’m waiting for havens
Of winter again.