Death can be Ruff

There’s a dog,
a dead dog.

“Oh, dead doggy
dog dog,
dead doggy dog,
do you, do you
remember me?”
says the flea.

Nope, I’m dead,
and your timing is lousy,
get off.

-

I’m thinking, Walter Matthau as the voice of the dog.

Why walk the old ways?

A daisy along the path
says “Stop!”,
a genteel warning sign,
and it can’t be picked
as the present goes no further
in these shoes.

The track, overgrown,
brought seldom into focus
without some thorn or another
to brush past, comes to arrest.

“Why walk the old ways?”,
it asks authoritatively.

Why do you only see ruins,
I see daisies too.

Under the iron canal bridge
where time,
still a nineteenth century
circle upon the water,
the moss grows as green
as it once was,
its rusting shadow casts
a tint over the daises that were
white chains.

It’s the little broken rings that
don’t survive, it tells me.

Tribute to a song

 A Norwegian jigsaw
of many key timbres,
threw its corner pieces
high up into the sky
of cloudless possibilities.

Some were caught
by strong Nordic birds,
they became unlocked notes,
resurgent wings of Viking birdsong;
the swallow pieces taken
to form musical heart.

The remains of the puzzle
fell back to earth, scattered
and became an enigma
of a distant feeling.

Many accepted this
partial incompleteness,
except for a lone bird
seen from a song’s window,
it sang oft that it’ll ever be
love’s fuller voice,
hunting high and low.

-

I don’t do the song justice, but I thought I’d post the
poem anyway (a-ha – Hunting high and low)

Hunting high and low / a-ha

15 September 2007, a-ha played a free concert in the town of Kiel.

Always loved this song, and to hear so beautifully sung again is

a gem, timeless.

Best fin forward

In every city river
there’s atleast one old fish,
its pearlescent colour viewed
in peripheral circles,
never quite seen in a summer;

hidden in those sways.

And in every city,
there’s atleast one person,
their profile once recognised,
somewhere in a subway
of someone’s mind.

In an old boot,
an old fish dies.

Somehow, it’s a sadder image
than the lost ones,
those hidden in the sways
unable to surface swim.

Kate Bush – Moments of Pleasure

YouTube – Kate Bush – Moments of Pleasure.

Circle of stones

Never seen, but in retrospect

It could be said that islands
are not originally there by choice,
but broken away, fragments
of a previous whole, moments
that didn’t hold on,
yet the reasoning isn’t always
obvious.

A hand that didn’t grasp,
but pushed, pulled
until there was no
mutual understanding
of taking or giving in.

Later, a touch,
of a footprint in the sand,
joining it into the perfect fit,
and seeing it’s there
with a focus of its own.

In a once upon a time,
the dividing line
the sun left behind
as it dipped away,
was indistinguishable
from the sea pulling down
upon a feint wave.

Until the tide brought it ashore,
bottled up as a memory.

Poetic microwave!

Open up.

Put the words in
as quickly as pos,
it says along packet,

=============
“No longer than
30 secs;
stir once only,
and leave the rest.”
=============

Easy.

DING!

Done.

Shell I spellcheck it?

Naw, I want to read it

straightaway!

-

* Inspired after a particularly bad “tomato and herbs” rice risotto
that I made earlier. I say “tomato” in only the very loosest sense,
nothing could taste that bad naturally.

Same play of days

I’m thirty six,
and you, my friend,
you’re not just a joker.

The bench keeps the cards,
in stacks for the next play,
inbetween Knaves and elusive Aces
we try to keep our cool;
crisp white shirts will remain
ours, whatever.

I’m thirty six,
and you, my trusted ally,
you’re the rare hand
of a lasting friendship.