All worlds encompassing.

Still -even after the years
seeming heaped with breaths of love:
I see in her most perfect flowers
On buttercup lawns, fresh from snow.
She is all and everything;
Outside her sphere is nowhere
a desolation of profound longing.
They may travel to lands mined
With diamonds and gold yet
Here shines a beauty untold.
All nature’s glory seems created as
A mirror which can only shine
Back images, not what is real:

"she walks in beauty like the night"
And what nights?

Yet these are only words and visions -
She is: cinnamon sweet and lilac pretty,
Sunset and dusk, she all states is.
Desire is a happy prisoner when it awaits
Pale beauty’s extended hand
So away with fantasies and far off lands.
Here is my compass and here my map.

Breaking up

So, he looked back over the things of their life:
the house, the car, the kitchen appliances and sighed.
It was tough to be open with the blue eyes that
stared
across
the table at him,
there were too many things to say, as if the words were too big, they became tangled and
desufnoc.

He noticed her vulnerability
like a thin
veil
revealing all behind the veneer of pursed lips;
her chest rose too quickly.
He nodded once and she knew it was true.
He stood and walked to the door, turned back to her and nodded,
he noticed now the two tea cups
and the fragile steam that
billowed lightly
from them and he went to speak.
Her head ducked as if to fend off the words
and he halted again, turned finally
and was
gone

She stared back - relieved.

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.