Monthly Archives: January 2018

Shallow Moon

Fridayam's Blog

The Moon has no June; has

never had a Harvest; knows nothing of

Honey; is neither Bitter nor

Blue; isn’t there to be

shot at, light Bombers’ paths or

illumine a Hunter’s prey;

doesn’t answer to Selene, Diana,

Astarte; cannot be Faithful or

Inconstant, even as it

slowly creeps away like a

grown child from a

demanding parent.

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Cranes

Diana

Most times, of course, she was

outside looking in as that

blank room slid by on her

morning commute, but

 

at night sometimes she was

inside looking out at that

blank face passing, both

craning their necks,

 

each trying to fathom the

other’s story.

 

(Image courtesy of the wonderful Diana Matisz)

Cellophane Heart

Where is the tab? the bit that

unpeals the wrapper?

Are my fingers too

big and clumsy to find it?

Or have you sealed it, so that I can’t

sully the substance

of your immaculately

cellophaned heart?

New Music

You complain that my music is

too loud, too discordant, too

new, implying that I am an

old fool fumbling to stay hip,

whilst you embalm yourself in the

music of your youth where you are still

golden, naked and available with

none of our history ahead of you.

Rust

A slight metallic taste on your skin
in the sweat of your body after sex
took me back in my sleep to the docks
and the inspiration of ships and deep water.
You were with me there, a shadowy figure,
and you led me to where she stood
watching a single-stacker tying up, absent,
eyes fixed on the waterline and the greasy trickle of a bilge.
We didn’t speak, just watched as the elegant iron
rusted slowly in the corruscating sea, rotting
as our love did, beneath sight and out of mind until,
it’s back broken, it sank in some deep.

Waking in the night, I didn’t know what to say.
I doubted you had spoken, knew she wouldn’t listen.
An ocean floor lay about that dark room
and somewhere far above a bell rang, beyond my hearing.

Light?

Not quite day but

not yet night

light uncertainly

parses grey

Winter in Suburbia

Past, present, future commingle in this

uncertain weather, dull at dawn,

spats of rain like chaffinches in the bush,

there one moment, gone the next, wind

waking dead weeds, the

threat of snow without the

glee of children, late and

unexpected sunset, startling stars,

silence approaching midnight as the

dryer switches off,

static making sheets

dance like spectres.

Mind

I wondered if my mind would

mind my desperate attempts to

find, amidst the flotsam of

jottings, the flutter of

post-its stuck everywhere,

unsticking whenever I

open the door,

littering the floor,

whatever it was I

set out once to do.

Resolution

The old year resolves into

endless rain

washing it away and

draining quickly through our

chalk to hopefully

fill our aquifers our reservoirs our

ballast and keep us

buoyant on choppy seas as a

New Year again tests our

resolve.

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