Category Archives: Memories

Hammer

You can hear it, the rain:

not the usual pattering but

each drop driven like a

nail, the sky a

dark hammer.

Feather

The tiny grey-brown feather—the

breast feather of a small

passerine bird, probably a

sparrow, of which many

roost in the neighbour roof—

seemed to float with no wind.

 

The fall of my foot

first brought it to my

attention, but now I was

unnaturally still, and still the

feather moved with no wind.

 

Perhaps it was my breath,

clenched though it was and

nearly six feet away, that

floated the feather?

 

I felt at once

powerful and

powerless, my soul

 

suddenly reduced to the

size and weight of a

 

feather with no wind.

Snatches

I only know snatches of you, like

snatches of music: a

triplet of Bach and a

sideways glance; some

furious Zappa solo, a

sharp, cutting kiss; a

tangled Monk song, a

mishmash of bodies; the

sickle prickle of a

folk song, nails up the back; a

chord of Stravinsky

dying away in your

unknowable breath.

Shadow Pleasures

Shadow Pleasures

Some sort of

ghost of me still

finds pleasures in

the shadows.

Confusion between Dark and Light

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There’s a confusion between

dark and light in Autumn,

sharp sunshine sometimes

warming my face, then a

sharper shower, laundry

drying in the breeze

suddenly scooped in,

something soothing on the

stove smelling

sweet and strange, my

hands hesitating to

draw the curtains while the

sky is still coloured-in and there

remains one last

glimmer of the day.

Wisps Of Taste

To the West wisps of cloud

reflect the langorous

vapours of a last cigarette, while

to the East the Moon rises

like the cream on an

Irish Coffee in which I can

taste, beneath the caffeine, the

smoke of peat, of

earth alight in the

wisps of whisky.

Reading

There are no notations on your life,

nothing to say allegro or andante, no

punctuation either, no

commas or colons and certainly no

full stops, so I can’t

play you or

read you but must

take you as you

say you are.

Musings

Perhaps you are the backing singer

harmonising his songs of

lost loves, your

soprano squeezing some

juice into his

grizzled heartbreak,

knowing you will

share his bed but

wondering about his heart.

 
Or perhaps you are cold and

naked on a dais,

perused and perplexed while

pen, pencil, oil or

watercolour try to

capture you who have never

wanted capture.

 
Or you are the anonymous

face on the tram or train or

bus, your vacant stare

stirring a man or

woman to sieve the

vast pot of words to find a

few to describe you.

Knot

The Knot of Hands

Hands tell a tale, even in

fractured lives, in

crowded places where a

hand helps, in the

silent bed where a

hand slips over hip

seeking fingers, in the

tight knot of

life lived in all its

knotty impossibility.

 

(Image used by kind permission of Holden-and-Camille.com to whom I am most grateful and you should go visit.)

 

 

Pizzeria

In this achingly modern eatery

there is nothing to distinguish

staff from customers and

endless uncertainty

who to wave at, who to

casually ignore.

 

My pizza arrives, the

ingredients so

carefully selected

unevenly spread, with

acres of barren dough like a

life with only

occasional pleasures, the

bare bits usually

left until last.

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