Tell-Tale Island


The smoothness of an image
Caught beneath so many
Here, as the rain falls
Beware these recollections
Great sighs are proclaimed
Loud and through the trees
Where final leaves are falling
Purple, serrated, full of sorrow
And muscles are pulled
Limbs they are arched
Creases become catchments
The skeleton becomes a wall
Great Lakes are filled
From the rain on the ground
Great reflections are felt
As they ripple away
Water is everywhere
Water it canters
Like horses, wild and fast
Useless we stand
As the world throws us around
We pretend we can rise
Yet we simply spin from east to west
We gain no foothold
In the soil full of rotting leaves
In the ground of this island
So we look out beyond our ledge
From the border to the sea
And we think of an island
Full of expression and song
Full of each other

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Lake Daff-Dilly

Image
Fish on the water Scales floating back and forth Grey clouds hanging high White clouds beneath A naked man asleep Drowsy with whiskey Strange sunlight on his calves His chest slowly rising, slowly falling The smell of wild herbs Smoke from the kitchen fire Sex on old blankets Lost on Lake Daff-Dilly Old myths talk of death The women think of birth Some wish they could leave The men pray on boats Trout stumble in their wake Drunk on the water's cold The flies were made by old hands The rod belonged to a dead uncle God I hope there is more whiskey The fire is still going I want you on old blankets Lost on Lake Daff-Dilly
Read more

Blind Me And Guide Me

Image
What is it you want me to believe in? Is it the flock of birds flying like joined roses floating The peak of sensual age? I turn Twenty Nine and the climax is mine The plea of a generation held together by torture? The torture of the prophets- Whitman, he nurses us Is it the course touch of a hand roughened by sand and rock? The path that applauses every step to Sodom The generous buddhist- bearded with eyes closed? In bed with the russian before dawn, We Let Him Down! The cold winter warmed by cynicism and a centuries irony? You can warm my arse with your country charm The poets lining their pockets with fools gold? Lining up to be shot by the artists- a war with out generals The skeleton with eyes to the stars? Awake and noticing how the apple never rots Is it the shop keeper that keeps everything shaded? The man who keeps a statue of Apollo at the bottom of his pool The mongrel God of Egypt and Babylon? So large his nose was singed by the sun Is it the song of hope written in the s
Read more

Whose Language Will I Speak?

Image
Allow me a little time to rest the clamour Upon the contours of your form The mirror gaze within your reply Will flash and fall and rise and build response Verbal shouts and gutteral groans In my room we both are right In hotels we are wrong Where will we die? Where will we scatter? Face down, lovers bodies, Russian grasses, Russian ice Before that I will paint you I will bury you in colour, on canvas While you tell me of your youth Of chasing birds and pretending you could fly The clamour is merely collection of one stands A collection of songs Trapped within my head, resting on your form And the guardian angles are sculpted into the architecture And I can see beautiful shade below your stomach As your leg is raised and it is an arch One to hold and make prayers from As I bow down and taste the flesh of man What will happen to us? Where will you die? You who was born to the poet and the siren Where will I go? Me, the hunter who has yet to return from the hi
Read more