A short collection of poems: Copyright: Michael Cant

As Found : A Short Collection of Poems Michael Cant

As Found

Find me someday in the cusp of memory, forgetting the music I felt for you without song shaped, or word shared.

My stillness constant , my bed made.

A figure forgotten, your King lost.

My form in fullness now bent, I shape my place in this darkness where once trumpeters came-upon time and shaped air to music.

What breath for me? None, nor light with me not.

Just corner collapsed with over-layed place, and no shape for memory or love-lost to be recalled.

Ever.

1.

No figure in stone, mantel where sacred space surrounds not.

Nor gilded casement.

Once, trumpets came and I suffered both life and death.

Now found.

But what?

I truly divine within space, entire without distraction, pure focus.

--

2.

Blinding

Memories shift.

Come back in consequence are all lives ever lived.

Time tracks, replays and moments remind that each return has it’s trajectory and daylight never fades in memory but lives on in gilt and glow.

Thankful for it’s course, living means we suffer surely and feeling that we suffer gladly.

We shift shape and define, forming nothing in other space.

Seeing it all , I bend new corners and reaches.

3.

Then fragments overlay themselves - -onto this and onto that until lost again, troubadours come and tell to wake their blowing souls to life.

--

4.

Wind map

Talk to me in moments gone where time waits, allowing my walk back in lesser daylight to watch leaves fall again with you at the end of summer, when the birds land in your newly made lines.

You move high at shallow tilt, tick tack across fields and then back track whilst we follow carefully under foot - your map.

Pass by me and say how-do.

Wave from youth I never knew you in.

Brush across my hair.

--

5.

Poe

We moved like air when first I knew, young as we fell.

Grazed knees and elbows.

Fingers, thumbs.

Boundaries layered a floating spectrum.

I dazzled and you in the source of light, held our bond’s shadow hard in its change of state.

Next, we alive for moments, disintegrate.

(I) in a circle, no need of locus.

(You) who tends to greater trajectories, triangulate.

Then our reformation.

Condensed, an intensified threshold of new space - we shift.

A physical- relativity, I marble-like am now polished stone.

A statue.

6.

You flap your wings.

And in the distance, groves of lemon trees scent the air, and sunlight holds in suspended animation, (We) who are frozen in moments never to repeat.

Blood not blood, body.

--

7.

Golden Bird

High above ceiling all sparkle speaks to me and traces the message of reflection.

We below upwardly gaze, whilst words filled in volume linger long in sunlit tracks and make visible and illuminate that which suspends the air we breath.

Particles are made solid and I notice that air does have Scent and taste.

To live is to leave traces they say.

Next I stand, not sure of which Way to turn or in who to trust.

Left to chance? Right you are.

8.

Now upwards in ascension My arms out-stretch and dare not hold back.

I float. Simultaneously liquid falls, washing away at me and after a while standing suspended in this watery threshold, i’m ready to emerge.

Dripping.

Back and forth, new dimensions animate And in this new surfacing Statues talk and walls sing.

Wings flap and Golden bird with granular song rests.

--

9.

The grazed knee (revelation)

Time and space mean one thing, situation another.

It was in the playground that (it) happened.

We ran.

And around the back nobody saw our fall.

Blood we are blood. Body we are body.

Already both.

Enough.

A humanist rebel, I stretch my canvas painting out experience in broad brush strokes.

Remember the play ground?

10.

Space has no room (and) time is not a moment for man.

In between (I) recreate myself.

I have no known shape nor place for memory, Or life to forget.

I’m Iiquid tracking it’s way on a surface, digging my own map for love.

----

11.