Monthly Archives: September 2018

Embers

Fridayam's Blog

Equinoctial winds fill September’s sails:

she creaks, complains, strains

ropes that must be loosed, and slips

inevitably away.

We run along the foreshore desperate to

keep her in sight, but the

horizon demands her and

suddenly she’s gone, just as the

first ember sail of Autumn

pierces the dusk.

Her berth is ready, roofs repaired,

windows fastened: for

fleet following her are the

Black Ships of Winter,

one by one.

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Life Curves

Life Curve

I knew behind those clouds were

stars, just the ones I could see, and

behind them stars and stars and

yet more stars

 

but so what when

life is almost but

not quite, close but

no cigar? Well maybe

 

half-empty or half-full

life curves away from

mystery to the

stone kicked, the

 

moment we have all felt when

our dreams must

give way to a

different reality.

This Aye Night

I heard the first fleeing geese

this evening at 7 pm under

reddening skies, Sunday

September 16th, 2018.

 

Why am I so precise? Well

it was a warm day, one of

many and no threat of

change to weather or forage.

 

It might have been some subliminal call

triggered by the approaching equinox, or

maybe just one goose panicked,

honked out, “Quick, let’s go!”.

 

And we know how panic grows at the

thought of being left alone with

night falling and a

long way to go.

 

At a quarter to eleven this

same night I heard a fox bark or

perhaps a dog barking at the

thought of a fox.

 

“When on doth rush the enemy…..”

Fridayam's Blog

So busy being scared

we have become the

people we despised, the quibblers,

back-turners, eye-closers,

street-crossers, the

endless-evidence-gatherers, blaming

global warming for the heat of

shame in our cheeks.

 

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Pelions Upon Ossa

Fridayam's Blog

My mother’s father was gassed at Ypres,

gasping to his early grave when we were

supposedly at peace and such

barbarity forever forbidden, but

two World Wars, fought now, would

sure be lost, so supine, so suspicious, so

fraught with fear have we become that

Hegemony would be total, the

Holocaust successfully concluded,

Pelions of additional dead piled forgotten on the

Ossa of those we pretend to remember yet

daily dishonour.

 

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Moths

The long Summer, the open door, light

make my kitchen a

moths cathedral, or rather

their mausoleum.

 

They fluster round my fingers when

once they used to

make me quail and

swat and kill.

 

So fears once ferocious pass with the

sough of a soft wing amidst these

fragile carapaces, these

powdery lost souls.

Atropa Belladonna Von Coup

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