short poems

Stanza Without Verse

these weathered stones once were men
as was too this sodden ground
their voices will not speak again
nor will their heartbeats make a sound
to stir the quiet of this earth
that rests upon what death has left
no gloried resurrected birth
will spring forth from this winter’s breath.

Charm

the sun is high, the lake is low
gently doth the east breeze blow
it’s kiss upon the verdant fields
so softly that all nature yields
as would a tamed beast to it’s charms
to and fro within its arms
lilting to this wind’s desires
such mornings do my soul inspire.

The Winds of Nidra

It is of no concern to me
that day may not be endless
not in the way the night is
when the dream breezes
westward through linen curtains,
and drifting from the east
the warm winds of Nidra come,
to flavour restless sleep
and stir it with a blend
of burning sandlewood
on dark lips jasmine scented.

Limericks of the Deep

there once was a snap happy clam
who flapped and he clapped as he swam
from starfish to squid
it’s just what he did
all the way to the Sea of Japan

In a hole in the deepest sea bed
sat an octopus baking some bread
but his loaf wouldn’t set
the dough was too wet
so he cooked up some biscuits instead

I knew an unsociable whale
who would snub all his pals without fail
whether dolphin or orca
he just wasn’t a talker
so from all the school trips he would bail

Dream

the golden apple
heavy on the dreamer’s bough
just out of reach
bruised with answers
to questions from its very core
sleep, serpentine
coils and climbs, then slips away
distracted.

A branch falls,
the tree dissolves
into the dust of breaking dawn
and all knowledge is lost.

Harvest

the ripened sun is gently falling
harvested by even’s calling
to set his golden leaves abroad
and thus secure the old accords
that though the dark through night may reign
come dawning’s spring light flowers again.

Sunday’s Dawn

three tanka for Jacques

Sunday is weeping
through windows in Amsterdam
a sunrise like sin
red as the ladies of the night
behind freshly drawn shutters.

Sunday cries this morn’
for the souls of pious men
worn as battle dress,
as they kneel before altars
to denounce those not like them.

Sunday is singing
a ballad melancholic
in drunken phrases
that make no sense, save to him
behind the whiskey bottle.

Fate

we cannot temper our own fates
nor challenge destinies
and life itself be not placated
by our reasoned tenancies
as even on our first day
from whence we leave the womb
we have about as much to say
as Lazarus in his tomb

Head (again)

where once thoughts reigned
a snowstorm dragged from static falls
loud behind my burning eyes
and brighter than I dare recall
a shattered screen, screams and cracks
dissecting dreams like razors.. edged
leaving no corner undisturbed
smashed remnants of clarity left in its stead