The Sunflower : a short fiction as prose

he planted a sunflower
deep in the forest
one moonlit night
when he was sleepwalking,
it was a lucid
recurring dream of his
which troubled him
for several weeks
so much so
that he could no longer rest
and spent many a midnight
from there on in
searching in vain
for his lost bloom
unaware
that it had already withered
and died.

My Friend Palgrave

my companion’s Palgrave
as I sail the seven seas
I forgo old Gideon
for the soul of poetry
in whose words I find a joy
that has such constancy
a clothbound friend for everyday
such treasured company.

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-sixty-four : The Late Wheeltapper)

his last song was heard
to the beat of his hammer
as the train pulled out

The Mausoleum

the candle shook this darkened womb
scattered gold around the tomb
and in that lantern’s light did see
the sum of life’s blithe mystery
vitality, virility
captured for eternity
as decorated ossuary
the irony of effigy.

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-sixty-three : wish)

and without warning
a distant star exploded
we wished upon it

Head Lines

Mister Hit-Parade is dead
Senta Berger jumps for joy
there’s crumbs of Wordsworth in my bed
for rhymes I must employ.

So I spark a docker’s delight
and hope my ship comes in
as I dream it every night
I write it all down with a grin

The table turns and Stevie sings
Noël Coward drops to the floor
Jane wrote a line about apron strings
but alas I can’t write anymore.

The Lake (a memory of Red swimming)

she rose from golden waters
as dusk fell beyond the trees
her body glistered with a smile
that told of what she sees
beneath the jewelled veil
that dappled mystery
its confidence held to itself
in depths of secrecy
she moved towards me shining
silent at the shore
and with wet lips she kissed me
to seal the secret evermore

They Burned What Went Before

there is no inspiration here
the manuscripts have burned away
a million words
to illuminate but just a line
set in stone above the door
the stained portico extolls
Dominus Illuminatio

5-7-5 (take three-hundred-and-sixty-two : darkroom)

these pictures of you
colours bled from time’s assault
are precious to me

The Last Forest Weeps

the last forest weeps
for its former child
who dropped from the trees
and deserted the wild
to level the mountains
and the hills and the plains
which now bent to his plans
with a will unrestrained
threaten the verdant
the motherly green
till the last forest weeps
upon what might have been