only three more to go :-)
Weird tools lend themselves easily
to lost cures and high lore,
they can play in waves of blue dreams
where saxophones of old walk in line,
murmuring nonsense at midnight,
pointing at mislaid directions to the old man,
baffled by the mages of infinity.
Words of substance flock at the foothills
with rolling water's entry shine
in pools of wet longing.
But he is lost.
Dark aspirations.
There are other contexts
with birth to breathe.
The water hymen is broken.
It tolls in a different tale.
Lost in waves of slow extinction,
shaped by the agony of old mothers,
old man cares not for the gloom
that fills his periphery,
that points to the shore.
He walks not in today's peace,
nor beneath a wicker basket sun,
rolling across feathery fields,
hen-shaped and slowly dying away
before eyes can say goodbye.
It is Mother of pearl morning,
– beneath the inside of a turtle shell,
smelling of wet decay and salt –
He mounts the sea with pain,
a serpent grinds sand and wet weed,
stray birds shrieks in unison.
Day after driven day
old man wrings the futile fire
lost middle men may scorn
in collect calls with consideration.
Midnight moon passes,
perpetuated by the ticking
of an old retreating heart.
All is contained in this manmade morning
where he stands by the window,
trading nebulous night for bright grief.
Teased by dark end's tell tale perusal
he falls windward into wet grass calling.
The viridian is a dark horse.
The bellowing roar of water watched
breaks in a distant seaweed summer.
Vacant shells and dead fish discarded.
Never before did a promise of continuance
roll morning into steeples and more cider,
with only a seahorse to plead with.
Old man lost in views:
There never was anything else.
He is close to you going.
It is winter.
Poetry by Bob
Read 542 times
Written on 2015-12-11 at 16:55
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A Stab in the Dark 13
Weird tools lend themselves easily
to lost cures and high lore,
they can play in waves of blue dreams
where saxophones of old walk in line,
murmuring nonsense at midnight,
pointing at mislaid directions to the old man,
baffled by the mages of infinity.
Words of substance flock at the foothills
with rolling water's entry shine
in pools of wet longing.
But he is lost.
Dark aspirations.
There are other contexts
with birth to breathe.
The water hymen is broken.
It tolls in a different tale.
Lost in waves of slow extinction,
shaped by the agony of old mothers,
old man cares not for the gloom
that fills his periphery,
that points to the shore.
He walks not in today's peace,
nor beneath a wicker basket sun,
rolling across feathery fields,
hen-shaped and slowly dying away
before eyes can say goodbye.
It is Mother of pearl morning,
– beneath the inside of a turtle shell,
smelling of wet decay and salt –
He mounts the sea with pain,
a serpent grinds sand and wet weed,
stray birds shrieks in unison.
Day after driven day
old man wrings the futile fire
lost middle men may scorn
in collect calls with consideration.
Midnight moon passes,
perpetuated by the ticking
of an old retreating heart.
All is contained in this manmade morning
where he stands by the window,
trading nebulous night for bright grief.
Teased by dark end's tell tale perusal
he falls windward into wet grass calling.
The viridian is a dark horse.
The bellowing roar of water watched
breaks in a distant seaweed summer.
Vacant shells and dead fish discarded.
Never before did a promise of continuance
roll morning into steeples and more cider,
with only a seahorse to plead with.
Old man lost in views:
There never was anything else.
He is close to you going.
It is winter.
Poetry by Bob
Read 542 times
Written on 2015-12-11 at 16:55
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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