Never thought of myself as much of a poet, but writer’s craft class forced me to dabble in those arcane arts. It was a fun experience.
Stormset
Although the rain has stopped
the driving wind still whips
and tormented waves still crash,
Flung against the broken rocks
to explode in shards of foaming spray.
Gulls scream and whirl against the sallow sky.
Grey yellowed swollen clouds untangle
to reveal
A red sun hung low above the sea
that shoots a jet of intricately flickering
orange across the anxious tide.
Alone on a jutting thumb of rock
a figure silhouettes against the dusk,
the river of his mind drifts to a halt.
Reflection need only lie in the spattering waves
Reprieve
A slow, dreary mask of smoke and flickering incandescents
Worn workers slouch on crooked chairs and stilted stools.
Their eyes are leaded with an ultimate exhaustion.
But their minds suppress the reality of
The worn furniture, tarnished juke box and
The cracked, collapsing ceiling
Instead they suppose themselves surrounded
With rich red satin curtains,
And curving chandeliers.
Their mind’s posteriors rest on the gentle cushions
Of elegantly upholstered seats.
As Rick the barman treads between them
To exchange a well brewed gold for coin,
They do not see his awkward limp, his bloated belly,
Or feverishly twitching nostril.
To them he is a well dressed gentry-man.
He greets them all with smile and nod,
And pours an exceptional wine from a delicate decanter.
The prospect of tomorrow’s haggering descent
Down shadowed passages to drudgery below
Is lost somewhere in reverie.
The relaxation they have found
Is more rare and precious than the diamonds they seek.
Highway #4 from London to Wingham
My head is squashed into the road dust obscured window,
Rattling ‘gainst it like a set of spoons.
Through narrowly lidded eyes I discern
Headlights piercing the darkening street like nails,
Yellow lines blurring together and past me.
Tedium drowns the talky radio-wave drone.
The window judders with increasing violence,
Harshly pounding at my skull
Until my restless mind can take no more,
It is knocked free and escapes
With an audible heave of air.
Untitled
We slide into a thousand failing pretences,
Our carefully moulded masks of lingering cheer.
And when we meet we will not talk of troubles:
Our easy words will flit, moth-like and carelessly
From trifling tails to paltry parody
And then perhaps entirely disappear
As the heady feel of your longing touch
Compromises language’s integrity.
And in silence, jest, or delicate embrace
The swarms of urgent uncertainties
Are swept away by convenience.
Through denial of quarrel or discord
These pretences of happiness remain.
Or are those pestering wasps so easily ignored
Because their consequence is shadowed
By the resolve of our own tenacious feelings for each other