Tag Archives: sonnet

Adversary

 

Every morning, freshly burst explosions

litter my once green and pleasant grass.

This warzone, reeling from each fresh incursion

needs help, we summon Moleman to kick arse.

He sets his traps which leave me feeling guilty,

as morning dawns I creep outside to look.

My foolish wish for death doled out humanely

is scuppered as I witness his rebuke.

 

He should be wearing tiny elf-made jerkin,

horn-rimmed specs and tweedy green plus-fours;

his fingers, better suited playing Chopin

than subterranean muddy midnight chores,

I stroke his nose, discover caviar eyes…

Oh how I wish we’d made some compromise.

 

 

 

I Hear Your Call


The term. Oesophageal Varices.

Blood flows, it fills your lungs and oozes,

blacklashed bruises crimson tears closed-eyes

hemmed in by black-gut twist. I hear your call.

It’s time to take your leave, death’s wanton whore

demands the living line to still, to view

her neon underscore, the beep your

overture, your wordless note. I hear your call.

You leave me feathers in your silent wake,

the first I found stuck to my sole, and knew

you’d come to me in dreams, and leave an ache,

my Ariel, and still, I hear your call.

Somehow love missed you, held you in it’s thrall,

and how it missed… yet still, I hear your call.

Apogee

You lie not here, yet here- wired up, the beeps
viridian tracings flowing through your veins.
Our love seeps through, you later tell us. Seeps
through, while we watch you sleep. We call your name.
You say you heard us, but you did not care
to take your leave quite yet. You felt this world
you could forsake, for you were happy there.
I walk Venetian lanes and hear the swirl
of lapping water lipping over piers
of umber wood. The amber sun held deep
within the ancient crumbling ochre years,
rose-madder shadows flecked with gold. I weep
for if I take my leave just here I’ll be
so near to reaching life’s sweet apogee.

Stalwart

Merging out from leafy tunnel-dark

to low-slung sun and monster shadowlands

in silhouette a stalwart bullock stands.

His brazen bulk on pale-grey road as stark

and black as jet on silver sands. He blocks

me, obstinate. I watch his male display;

a gauntlet thrown, a challenge to a fray,

he snorts his sweet hot silage fog, and mocks.

Desire to stroke his tousled forelock aches

in me. I reach. I touch. Meet mirror eyes

and see myself so small in giant skies.

Those waxy curls, a texture that awakes

a memory. My fingers. Your black hair.

So long ago, yet still, I linger there.

 

Golden

Renouncing tradition I took to the woods,

my trusty companions weft white-wizard

breath in their wake. Umbells of seedheads

donned snow-hats, heads nodding. The sunshards

turned treetrunks bronze-molten and roseate, their

glory-crowns straggling and trailing down low.

I followed the arrows that broke through the

snowcrust, they lead me to furrows all blow

rippled, whittled like wet weathered sand, lone

trudged over leaf dropped montelimar nougat,

an old slingshot treewreck held low-slung sun

missile, poised, firebrand aimed wide to the far

away heavenbound candyfloss wisps,

turned everything golden, the true alchemist.

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