Evening thoughts on a fire

He rolled up a paper and chucked
it, watching the off-white turn
bronze and black and smoke and
leap flames.
In his eyes he saw a past, swirling up
on the ringlets of floating ash:
And this was history, and this was now;
a warm glow soon to be extinct -
a hope soon to be melted
in October's cold, cold showers.
And so can go things:
Friendships, loves and hope.
We all hold and tie the rope.

what thought did

it could never have been known
a sharp space between knowing and not
between the things that minds savour
and things that rock the cores
no one could see it although
the signs had flown for years
no one then
said anything

Early mist

The sun yellow, thickly
hugged the ground - all was dank
in the glen; wet leaves
browner and slapped on
in winter's anger, steeped the steps.
A pale mist seemed to grow
and as the ice cleared
thoughts of beaches: imagining
the sun's early heat again.

Jesus signs - or obvious literary devices

He rubbed his palms then massaged his forehead which seemed to tingle with a thousand scratches. In his shoes the soles of his feet ached. He put down the hammer and the nails and straightened his back, leaning for a moment against the wooden strut, outstretching his arms, sighing "why, why?" and then he picked up the cup of wine, placed the bread on his tongue, chewed and washed it down with a small swallow, the red liquid warming his liver. He rubbed his beard against the grain and set back to work, head dripping in the heat, little beads that stained the dust at his feet. His hands ached and soon he needed again to stop. Three days. Three days of pain and torture. He pushed open the impossible hinges of the heavy door and walked out into the disbelieving stares of his family - he hoped it would be worth it. He hoped.

Images

Construction of an image:
A meaning is doubt,
Rolling over the lip
Like froth to bubble and
disappear.
What mark is left,
Like poetry on trees;
Leaves like biscuits
Taken from an oven too late?
Water is clean and white is pure.
Yet, there can be doubt
Where none are doubtless.
I bend to the paper like
and artist to craft an
Image, an abstract made whole
Replete. There can only be
meaning in the heart's eye.
The pencil shifts and scratches,
tearing at the veil
to reveal an idea
always failed.

Lowell

It was as if a stormy hell had opened up
slowly. The deep shadows were a drop
of loose leaf pictures in the past
of a magazine. There was the last
post of a siren call and the phone
hung from its perch like a bleached bone.
My head pounded, the blood at all costs
punching. There were tears at the lost
and a driving car shone mechanical light
across the bed, through the shades. Right
then I rolled over, he rolled away: a sight
of what was to come when he left me alone
in this dark hotel room with its air-con drone.
Can love be? I asked and smoked, is it air?
I thought. Stringing the pieces with hair
wound up like the snake in the tree,
the apple seed deep within what was me.

A brace

An early Christmas present;
the bright plumes and stiff feathers,
heads hanging like sacks,
the curled feet gripping futile air.
I hung them in the shed -
it didn't matter they were dead -
and took them out some weeks later
the colours as vivid, the eyes
now hollows that recede into
dark depths - I stared they didn't.
I carried them by their feet
like old hands seeming rough
but smooth to the touch - like metal.
I laid them on the garden table
their heads lolling over the edge
beaks open a touch.
I pulled at the feathers surpirsed at
how many there were now dancing in the
December breeze and seeing - after an age
the naked skin - took the knife
not knowing where to start, the glow of
an early sunset, ginger bread noises
from kids inside: I sliced clean off
the head of one and found the
bladder for grain.
I watched as the pellets fell to the floor
I would not eat this bird!
I snipped off its wings and wrenched free
the legs and then the same for its mate
ripping and piling flesh on flesh
and flung the corpses in the trash.
Somewhere in my freezer sits a pie uneaten
Sometime soon it will go the way of all
flesh.