Tuesday, April 7, 2015

Jonathan Beale- Three Poems

Road Trippin’

Let’s go get lost, let’s go get lost…
                                                             (Red Hot Chilli Peppers)

            We found the point with which to vanish;
down a highway; to somewhere,
            some down trodden highway leading…
we saw only infinity down the road we here stuck on
            although, that infinite white line leading away
leading us away to where the dawn breaks green

            wishes were as the cob-webbed life
swept away by a bigger hand – for not fitting
            We mapped across the night
The day before was grey against the blazing sun
            That first step as cold as hell –
We stepped on a Greyhound 20 cigarettes 


The Waiting Room

The spaces between:  the miniatures: the overtures’ and the passing light
Against the stagnicity of the dense white painted lines – indicating
Corpuses’ seeming alive really are the evidence of a skin deep revolt

The pictures as… staid and stagnant and…
The moment is draining against tiredness and exhaustion and bland want
Still the pictures remain and still they do nothing

The waiting room is the cubular void in which – in where – in how the dead
Past authors peoples elevated in biography remain as a linchpin of…
The light, their legs, strangeness’s capture and distract. Time is eroded

Seas pass. And again. Lamenting woes and lusting against futures
The night is beholden to the frost that silent helps the soil that feeds
And clear destroys the young saplings in the their…before their morning glory       

Country night

White fences married to the grass
Some hippy youthful union deplored
By natures elders the oak and willow
Here the barn owl glides around

The failing light the empowering dark
Bring on its new set – of scenes
The smoking clouds across the still
Here where all endings meet

Some black rat – finds a new comfort
In his darkened surrounds – he plays
Now the game that once was is
Now no more the ante is upped against the dark

The grass following is masses like behaviour
As seen in the city – yet here on the land
The noises are a new composed –
They who know leave alone until the time

The cattle frank the earth.
The dew licks the cud and innocent grass
The peeping sun offends the dark
Like the lover interrupted   

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