Readers make the best companions

Drifting above the room
to areas rarely seen,
the top ledge of the bookshelf
displays a dusty parade
of propped novels read
and some unread
leaning aslant into tomorrow.

The lampshades from here
are tempting orbs
shining upwards,
directing me
in their searchlight nudges,
with adamant requests
to get out a duster and flick
away highlighted cobwebs.

I desist (knowing what I know)

For there’s that old spider reading
“The Time Traveler’s Wife” again,
and I notice its fine silken thread
traversing one room corner
right to the open book.

If only I made the same efforts
to read as it did. So, I assist
turning the page for it (carefully)
and between us we get to page two.

In genuine thanks
it untangles its trap,
and offers me begrudgingly
another free-fly
so I can become accustomed
to these fragile, moth wings.

Here’s hoping it’s a lengthy book
with a happy ending.

A straight line has no corners.

Days lead into days
of straight ahead lines,
I am just an ordinary,
old schooled legionary
out of time with his world.
In a century imagined
I’d never see,
scarred from too many battles
with Barbarians.

Our monuments,
they’ve alas crumbled,
given themselves unwillingly
to the sea, not wanting to be
rediscovered, “Carpe Diem”
thrown upon its head;
a plaque under the waves.

I’ve Viewed the statues
of the Gods and Goddesses
from sideline standpoints,
caught fish swimming through
their armless elbows,
necklaces of pearl, azure,
just precious weights
to submerge in transition.

There’s emptiness within
those marble set features,
the missing limbs, chiseled lips,
from subtle to strong Roman noses,
once so carefully formed,
now broken, askew;
as if that’s what they always
were.

On the new shoreline,
you stood beside me, my love,
posed in their place, smiled.
Shook the old world from your hair
like Neptune’s daughters
discarding tridents for a nets,
and it was no use denying,
we soldiers were captured
by a different pace, along a path
which really didn’t matter
how direct it was.

You can’t fight every war,
sometimes you just have to live.

The grate escape

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I thought I might add some of photography for a change.

The yellow one is called Hilts ‘The Cooler King’ after Steve McQueen’s character in a certain film. Hilts may or may not be able to perform motorbike stunts. That is uncertain, but that’s how he rolls.

Another flower offered

It’s difficult to re-enter
a time before that afternoon,
the first rain laden sortie
into the hush of here.

The storm, it flung pebbles
from off the kerb,
and us too,
unwitting chess pawns
pushed upstream
to land within this cathedral.

We were the first, as it were,
to cross into a newly secured space,
awaiting the next move
played by an unknown hand.

That only came in its own time,
as the weather
and our hearts lightened.

Tracing plainly adorned columns,
I felt sure a withered vine
climbed to the ceiling,
only to resurface near the vaults,
where unexpected, it lit up, bloomed

a stained-glass sunflower.

The first of many
for an atheist to believe in,
shining from the outside we ran from.

-

*Still not really sure about this poem to be honest. I think what I was trying to say in it was that often our revelations don’t come from the places that they are supposed to, i.e like the cathedral. The stained glass window was lit up from the outside, an outside far beyond the confines of the cathedral. As in, sometimes, it’s the outsiders that give the most to reflect upon, and where the light appears from. They are often the real flowers, those who shine against the odds of the weather, or the norm.

Poetry, it doesn’t speak to me

I often have to tap it
upon its shoulder,
before it turns around
and chats freely.

I recall one such time
it did reveal itself,
it became a tattered flyer
on a Parisian lamp post.

How strange.
Why Paris?

It read
(loosely translated of course)
“For one night only,
an extravaganza of words,
bring your own leg,
and meet me here.”

I assumed by leg the translation
faltered somewhat.

It also didn’t exactly state which night,
what time or what the significance
of the lamp post was.

Or for that matter, who ‘me’ was.

Some things are the same
in every country, cryptic.

When I did return,
a little dog stopped by,
sniffed my leg and
wrote something post-modern.

Sadly, it can go that way sometimes.

Waterfalls and streams

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There’s something there
that mimics the traversing
of stresses and problems,
that seem to be washed away,
and carried downstream.

If only whilst caught mesmorised
in the ebb of the water’s movement.
The sounds caught in the ear
like a deep, clear understood clarity.

Even if only then in that place
and for a moment,
it is something to enjoy,
offered naturally and free.

Watch the leaves and twigs
float away.

It flew from the fire

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It takes far far more
than it can be easily imagined
to diminish the human spirit.
If it is connected
to someone, or something
we deeply care about,
it is said, this is especially so.

Then it will prevail.
It’ll endure almost anything,
until when the final torch dies,
and it becomes nothing, apparently.

A defiantly spitting spark,
ending up a snap of white smoke
to rain down as settling dust.

Yet even within the ashes,
for one of the heat born,
one tempered from resilience,
in the blackest of soot left behind,
from there, that darkest place,
will claw another phoenix.