The Winter Bouquets
After the painting by Morris Graves’
Surrounded by four dull walls
On one hung a view, a looking eye:
The glass: stemmed of thought
–
The sticks brittle in the air and water.
Pieces as thoughts
Like a Japanese poem:
The parts of nature
segmented
As if intended by a mischievous
deity
Looking skyward or hell
bound.
Is the mind set of man.
Corrupted simple forms in a
game.
A hard woody exterior
Displaying nothing
Brash edges
Forgotten by the artists
hand and eye
And cut off from nature’s
breast.
Leaving the room I looked back
At the winter to come against the summer
sun.
Brighton
The old woman that lives at the end of
the lane.
As she has... forever.
Eternally stamped and as
dishevelled
as the sea washed
seafront.
Youth subtly avoiding her.
As she, hangs her washing on the line.
Ignoring the winds
kiss.
The ceramic walls
Of her home she decorates in her evening
wishes
Cheroot’s plastered over the
floor.
Along with the oils and
colours
Of paintings she
creates.
Her time split between -
Incessant, loquaciousness, and monastic
silence.
In this cul-de-sac.
Of forgotten dreams she labours.
Against times idling thumb
twittering.
And as the wolf whistles
To the girls into the night
She stares blankly through the gin and
cigarillos.
Within the antique
décor
She lives by breathing the briny
air
The turquoise and white as her eyes
Her life is slipping by, like the
quayside ropes
Of the leaving ships.
Her grammar of life, now no longer
understood.
Her anger, raw as the marrow, red as
paprika.
Growing life pressured by the lost leaves
of her life
The rickety old rocking chair goes on –
rocking - just.
The world unseen through smoke stained
glass.
The Rosewater dew
The rosewater dew
Falls on every diesel engine and rust
smothered piece
Of man’s metallic creativity
Breathes life into and through every
leaf
The Living and loving are
asleep
The dreams slip in and out through the
ears and eyes
The sullen poets cast their rod &
line
To catch a word on a line
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