Containment

This is us
within these sheets
within these four walls
contained within this moment 

Carrying dust angels,
ascending and descending the ladder,
shafts of sunlight search through
the gaps in the curtains
the cracks in our containment,
like a searchlight
seeking escaped prisoners
the outside breaking in
we are free in our confinement
still, on the run, in each others arms
and running out of time.

The content of our containment
is content,
Meant for now,
meant for moments like these
what is contained
within the sheets
of memory and time

naivety and sex and a tainted kind of innocence
pleasure
acceptance
retreat,
simple joy,
in your arms,

she smiles and
 the tiny golden hairs on her arms
seem to catch the light of it
and they shimmer in sun

What do the searchlights say
what do the outskirts of time demand
as they hammer, unheard,
on the walls of our basement box

that our lives are beckoning us back
that the unfulfilled longings wont long by themselves
that our separation seeks us
that this is a contained moment
and the shell of it will shatter,

they say;

'bring us your children'

and we duly obey


but that is for then
and then is for now
 I keep you contained
in the memory of the moment

we two were once one
withdrawn from life
and on the run
content to be
and bathed in sun

and I think,
that I wish
the Buddha was right,
that enlightenment perhaps is
the absence of desire,

but we are unwise
and we need the fire

Turn the page

Whatever you did 5 minutes ago,
That so filled your heart with shame and rage,
Beneath the blood it is forgotten,
That was another age,
Forgive yourself and,
Turn the page.

Every day was written in,
Before one of them came to be your cage,
But in the book of life and grace,
The script's as blank as an empty stage,
Learn your lines and improvise,
Play your part and,
Turn the page.

Whatever the  grave clothes you wear,
From your former deathly wage,
The plot line demands that you take them off,
Be you sinner, saint or sage,
Shed regret and pain and naked to new life,
Come forth and take the stage,
The old you has been written out, so,
Turn the page.

Deep Hearts

The deep in you calls to the deep in me,
all your breaking waves,
broke over me,

beneath the surface,
of the surf
lies the force,
that formed the wave,
that shaped this earth,

Don't scratch my skin.
Don't scrape the dirt.
Dig down god-deep,
to the well of hurt.

The seed you planted,
deep in my dreams,
that runs through my soul,
through muffled screams,

calls to the deep in you,
to the hidden depths,
beneath your words,
beyond regrets.

Beyond the stars.
Beyond understanding.
Beyond my need.
Way past my demanding,

a home for the heart,
all that I am, and am to be,
cries out to you,
longs to see,
Love, Justice,
Creation, Mercy.

The deep in you calls to the deep in me,
all your breaking waves,
broke over me.

Still waters run deep,
wake the desires beneath,
that slip into sleep.
Stir the sleeper into stirring.
Summon the deep,

the deep in me,
all you made me to be,
calls out to you,
as you call out to me.
Summon Leviathan ,
from the depths of the sea;
Awaken love.
Awaken thirst.
Awaken me.
Do your worst.

Naked flowers

I burned our naked photo's tonight,
Petals of the flame curling into the dark,
Five years of hanging on,
Surrendered to the match heads spark,

Our love's young bloom, before my eyes,
Becomes a shriveled up and blackened rose,
As the celluloid curls up like toes,
Layer upon layers,
Rose upon rows,
As the ashen pollens rise,
An undecided light, blossom-flickers across my nose,

Bouquets of potent chemicals,
Dangerous if inhaled too long,
Seem to fill up this open air,
Cloying, reaches into my lungs,
But I am not intoxicated by its fumes,
Immune, I gaze into the blooms,

Our nakedness and shame,
Covered finally by some carbon blanket,
Like in another life-light,
Petal-adorned bed clothes,
Set for a banquet,
Sex and death and flame
Burned up like innocence,
Burned up by pain and blame,

And when the flames have done their work,
The darkness came, to reclaim,
Among the scattered ashes, a thousand tiny poppy seeds of light,
Like the lights of a distant, distant city,
Crackle persistently in residue of shame,

And inevitably they too will die,
Giving seed only to these futile words,
Until I stir the Ash laid flower bed,
And again, in their turn they burst,
Into more cities and colonies of even smaller seeds,
Until lines between dark and light,
Seem almost blurred.

I lay these Nude and firey flowers,
On the ashen grave of our loves hours,
And prayers ascending, like hot ash into the night,
I release my heart,
I release the light.

It's the things I can do now (that remind me of what I cant)

Since you have gone;

I can leave my plate of food, temporarily on the floor,
If I go to the kitchen, I can leave open the door,
I can step confidently and barefoot across my room,
In the dark,
(Canine incontinence is such a lark)

But I can never hear you bark,

I can leave my mattress where it lies on the floor,
(Never worrying about what urine may pour),
I can stay out at night until quarter to four,
I can spin around suddenly without treading on your paw,

But I cannot reverse the law,
Of death and grief,
Even though it thaws,
I can never trim your claws,
Or look on you lying,
In the place that is yours,

I can go out all day, I can stay over night,
I can leave early, winter mornings,
Without leaving on the light,
Leave the door open wide,
Without you taking flight,
I can leave food lower,
Than your heads height,

But I can never leave you, when I go out at night,
And I can never return to the welcoming sight,
Of you.

I can never leave you again.


(For Lilly)

Lost ground

Lost and found,
I lost my ground,
I heard a sound,
And hit the town,

I paint it red,
I want it dead,
Now I lay me down to bed,
And block out the noise I've come to dread,

The noise of unrequited dreams,
The silence that will haunt my screams,

A Poem A Day

Here, take one of these,
Once a day, every day of the week,
Till you fall to your knees,
Type away typos,
Till you loosen your keys,
Click save when your halfway done,
So its easy to breathe,
Soul into memory,
With an apparent ease,
A poetry pill, to swallow,
If you do, or don't please.

A poem a day,
keeps the dullness at bay.

A writer who's triter,
 A Poet who's slow, its,
harder to look,
At the titles/recitals contained in a book.
I look at 'My boys' on the shelf,
Herbet and all the poets call out,
Physician, Heal thyself.