Yellow Moon

The nightjar knows my window,
Brought to my attention
On a sandless sirocco.
A diaphanous cotton curtain,
Duck egg coloured, coveted
Under an oval rococo sky.

Yellow moon, rarified, rarer
Than blue, gravity carries
Waves of vibrant life on
This town’s fringe, car horns,
A far dog’s bark, moored yachts
With light bulb strings and

Distant bells. I lay dreaming
On my chaise longue beneath
Windows with symbols like
Love unattired, perspiring
Slightly on my lip, I sipped
Some milk in my sleep

And counted the many statues
With their harps and arrows
Until it slipped, transpiring
That you could not arrive in your
Current form, and nor could I
Leave, though love, how I tried,

How I tried and deceived
The seven symptoms of my distress,
Kept apart from the night-princess
With life’s strings I strived to
Contest, I awoke in a sweat,
Only to find I survived instead.

Slate Heart

My heart transposed
From pastry to slate
Just as you found me,
A heart-shaped slate
Tethered with hessian
Handles to keep above
Your dressing table,
For lists, and luck.

So write within
The confines and shape
Renewed by your grace,
This accommodating
Plate of compressed
Metamorphic sediments
Will savour the flavours
Of chalk-engraved nouns
Down his grey-green lateral
Surface. You flattered
Me latterly, and I can take
Psychoacoustic traits
While I wait with
Vanities and patience
To see words scraped
On my chest by your
Whitening, trespassing
Nails, words of togetherness,
Hope, and mutual love.

Then, when you are finished
With your infinite
Blue hues of language
Darting like sticklebacks
By the reeds, irrepressible
River-spirits take heart,
You can wipe away the words,
And together again we start.

Swan Song

This is how it begins,
Because everything is
Born from beginnings;
From alpha hatchlings
To supplements of omega,
Although one is not
Necessarily completely
Distinct from the other.
Even the Miseries of Achlys
Were initiated and embossed
On the bronze shields
Of Athenian hoplites,
Before Time made remedies
In the form of Poetries,
And reminded me of
The birth of sorrows
Growing like
Bone marrow
Inside me.

It takes form
Like honeysuckle
Seedlings,
Which we may mistake
At first sight
For pervasive weeds;
A season later and
The fragrances fill the
Nostrils of bees
And the space taken
By souls we remained
Quite oblivious to,
When in reveries
On sun-soaked lawns
In June. It pollenates
On the tide of a Muse
Who exudes the words
And the words turned into
The life of poets,
Prior to their
Metamorphoses
For swans reborn.

Painful, humid days
Swept away by prevailing
Blustery trespasses
Of outlaws from
Atlantic squalls
Bring rainfall.
Sometimes the downpour
Is sufficent, Muse-willing,
And the songs of the rain
Are recorded as they land,
And some we give to the fields
And the valleys,
The water table’s replenished
From the peaks,
So that we can
Return to the springs
And the streams and feel
Inspired again.

These days,
Do not write if not
To unify something
Whether the schisms
Within you, or the
Disagreements of a family
Of nations, something
To chime with the
Pendulum of your soul.
Do not write unless
It terrifies someone,
Whether yourself, the poet,
Or someone who would
Rather mute the swans
Of their language,
Shackled on a
Stagnant pond
Of compliance.
Better to write something
And have authenticity,
Your poetry will flourish,
Than keep the words inside
As someone else’s charity.