Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

Leaving on an ending

At the top of Rouge Plate Hill we ran all day.

Just for nothing at all

migrations of our minds

through our ages.

Epochs talk to, and back from

their roots grow endlessly unattached.

On this monument, which we beat Russell and Aristotle.

We lost our summer’s days.

Among the bloods

of ours merging from the grape

to the miraculous stupid idea.

The smell of vinegar on our chips.

Then Oct like an axe

Fell, the pendularly could

be seen to slow and stop.

The light as a magician twisting

a sheet – falling short.  On Rouge

Plate Hill – we left on an ending.    

The Silence

The silence, new, anew

each begins and seems

to never end.  Just this

unending overlapping –

Each, somehow fresh

and the same and unique.

Sitting in the cold silence:

the eyes cut and are alone

In crossing the stone.

In this idealist trip – does an

ear - know silence? Or do

the passing vast ships on

longest, darkest sea, fail

in the night consumed by silence.

After the grey

i.m. Steve Strange

As that simply beautiful French woman

Sings across the overtones of her Gallic chorus;

Simply feminine.

In the offing. That beat.

The forwarding busts of both characters opposing:

His strongly carved defined features

Breaking through

The Serpent’s strength.

This mystical call – poring - dreaming into an

Angelic trance - taking in, as Echo lost.

This marquetry iconography

Still stands today.

Here after – cuts time and Tide this image is & remains

Unbroken, unbreakable, in her Frenchness, that touches

the soul.  And can

never leave the psyche.