Distant

An intermittent conservation
Two ladies
Somewhat aged
In a market café
Beans on toast for two

Quiet words
One admonishing

Omitted words
The younger

The café is almost empty
Tables wiped
Chairs all neat
Waiting to close
On this tranquil late afternoon

One hums a song
The younger

The other scowls
In disapproval

The Ire of Language

The indignation is within me
Screaming to exit
Manacled in anger
Devoid of convention
Desirous of expression

Often it's jubilant
Untamed and untameable
Screaming freedom

Often long dry muteness
Devoid and frustrating
Most often smothered
Avoiding life entirely

The sleeping quiescence
Always awaiting ignition, conflagration
As if swimming in some tepid void
Desiring vengeance, desiring escapement

Then, then, as if…
A torrent of expectation
Comes spewing forth

And alongside all
Redress
Disappointment

An Image of Salutation

What's the illusion we should create
On this monumental day
This milestone of old age

Possibly a swooping sparrowhawk
Darting through the woodland
Chasing, swooping, pouncing
On its next meal

Or is it the fleeing chaffinch
Hiding in a thorny bush
Watching, waiting, frightened
Singing a monotonous warning

The Scrolls

Fifty-six scrolls heaped high
There may well be more to come
Sometime, maybe

The text is nearly complete
These scratched out fragments of my existence
All awaiting obscurity
These are scrolls of myriad days
Days of anguish and little joy
Dreams of walking hand in hand
Days of misty pictures and childhood fears
Dreams of the first sight of that lovely girl

Your welcome to delve among them
To read, to weep, to cry
Just clean up afterwards
And don't look back

White Van and Blue Vision

A little before nine in the evening
The end to a mild day
With dull clouds overhead
A quiet street
All neat terraced houses
And disorderly parked cars

Nine o'clock in the evening
Along comes a white shabby van
A mobile shop
Its discordant horn
All violence and hatred
Disturbing the stillness
Its waits expectantly

Just after nine in the evening
The front door opens of the house opposite
Out steps a young woman
With short blonde hair
Dressed in light blue pyjamas
And a powder blue dressing gown
She strides across to the van
Climbs the steps
Her thin frame disappears
Five minutes later
She reappears again
She's clasping something small
Possibly chocolate
She strides back across the road
And her front door quickly closes

A little after nine in the evening
Would it not be perfect
In the still and the quiet
To be in the same room as her
Nothing more, just the same room
Would it not be perfect

Clocks

Dark mornings; dull skies
Before the clocks twist, distort
Promising dark evenings

Haiku on Haiku

Five stark syllables.
Seven following on line two.
End on a wry five.

Daybreak

Mist covers the valley
Masking distant council houses.
Streets, quiet, empty.

The lingering grey
Slowly, so slowly, brighting.
Promising dampness.

Reveries of an Imaginary Landscape No. 35 – Exaltation

The purple spirit of life
dances with joy on green
entwining in their sweetness

The white struggling free
hidden beneath the blue
and throbbing in its new found vision

Clasping, grabbing, stroking
they mix and match
pure rhythmic existence, pure exhilaration

Reveries of an Imaginary Landscape No. 34 – Straight Mystery

White crinkly lines
all enigma
all puckered petals

White folds falling apart in smoothness
so sleek
so sensuous

Back bands of treasure
still to reveal
still tantalising

A yellow comfortable smile
now above
now encouraging