Escargatoire

A promenade of snails
And promises daily entailed,
Within life’s escargatoire
Resides a finer refuge
From the Summer hails.

Every season
Unseasonal,
We walk a mountain trail.
Those fine Autumn rains,
Appalachian;
More than mizzle,
Less than drizzle,
Somewhere blessed and inbetween.

Reminding me of times
When briefly I felt
Communion with my
Thalassic soul,
And saltwaters surrounding
That long-lost littoral shoal
Changed, in time,
Jurassic coast
Metamorphosed whole
From teeth into salves
And then what else
I’ll never know,
Fuel for other people’s dreams
And other people’s songs.

We gave the world away
To dancers and to singers,
But in the giving of our gift
We salsaed with the sinners.

It will not be so long
Before this Autumn’s gone;
Where do we go, love,
With all our homes eroded
In this unfathomable loss;
Where chances all expired
And the precipice is seen,
Who will build a northern spire
Where you and I once dreamed;
Of weather and of mountains
And snails in their desmene,
And who will put a cross atop
Our church beneath the Sea.

Ode To Beauty

Describing physical beauty
Should never begin with a form,
Society’s circular cruelties
Turn falsehoods into the norm.

So firstly undressing a kindness
For so long stowed in your heart,
Sharing love’s like-mindedness,
Sublimer sleeps the art.

All love is loving in layers,
Our bodies are only the start;
I’d rather see your soul flourished,
Where the lips of souls then part.

Ode To Hurt

We cannot just close off hurt;
This is as absurd as trying to cram
An already full cupboard
With one too many of multiple toys
Destined to remain unplayed,
A little mouldy here, a little frayed
Around the ears. For hurt
Is always stronger for us,
And eventually, as inevitably
As fir cones on a forest floor,
The cupboard doors open
Not with an announcement,
Not with a crash of cymbals and drums,
But a quiet undoing in the night,
So that on awaking, everything,
Everything has departed the mouth
Of that destitute space,
And there is nothing left to say.

This is why we watch each other
From across an indifferent room
Where strangers are in a hiatus,
We may as well be further away.
No, it is better to leave these remains
And sometime purchases from shops
Now closed, where people worked
Who now are dead, and businesses,
And love, oh how we live,
Where living brings an end to death,
But hurt there, dressed and exhaling,
Looks at itself in a mirror, and begins.

Poem For Lovers, No.2

Let’s fill this house with flowers,
Attend some summer balls;
Forget those broken vases
Where we danced across the halls.

Let’s take a zigzag rabbit path
Between two sun-blessed dunes;
Waltz around a sandbanks
To lost romantic tunes

Which drift across the currents
And over love’s lagoon,
Reflections in her waters
Make a second moon.

I’ll pack the hamper in our car
And won’t forget those flutes,
Driving home above the stars
On blue Atlantic routes.

Let’s celebrate your loveliness,
Let’s grow old as weather,
The vases glued togetherness,
And rest beneath the heather.

Overboard

Toothless days,
Stale, bald coot days
On interstate railroads,
Destination Self-Loathing,
Then Self-Defeating,
It’s a quiet, small town
But they call it a city.

Soul-flummoxed,
Trapped in my stomach
Like a headless chicken’s
Featherless, eggless
Corpse in the grain.

Look-at-the-state-of-him
Days, Panic Stations,
Orange veins from picking
Fruit from the same orchards
For generations until
The task changes you,
The Orchard of Illusion,
You may appear the same
To others but your mirror
Is where the unvarnished
Truth remains, long after
I departed that room
For another day in trouble.

I would box up, pack up
These industries of nothing,
And the roots of mountains
Making good myths’ coffins;
It’s easier in this way
For the wordless, the mute,
To keep a promise.
One day would be sufficient.
I would pack up my bones
And throw the suitcase of my
Self overboard, in to endless
Hungry jaws of the ocean
But the antidote is intravenous
And continuosly working.
You took my hand, soothed
My brow, said you loved me
Although I didn’t know how,
And you put a slender finger
To my lips and softly said,
All we require, my dear,
Is love and wine and apples
In this bowl as proof enough
Of future life and tidal lengths.