poems b

Poems a: When I first knew, we were young and fell.

Grazed knees and elbows, fingers, thumbs.

Blood not blood.

We moved air like, boundaries layered a floating spectrum.

I dazzled.

You, in front of the source of light held love’s shadow hard in its change of state.

We alive for moments, disintegrate.

I in a circle, no need of locus.

You, who tends to greater trajectories, triangulate.

Then our reformation.

We condense, An intensified threshold of a new kind of space.

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

A statue.

You flap your wings.

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.

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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.

-The play ground (A) humanist rebel, I stretch my canvas painting out experience in broad brush strokes.

Remember the play ground?

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 love to forget.

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

-An Niente At the edge of the pond, paving. Cracked, random stone, pinky-grey .

I cannot recall it’s pattern or texture But over are leaves in a thick coating, twigs. Yes twigs!

And water, murky and unrested comes with a sense of some-thing other.

Of fright , of taking fright but also the pressing nature of an unknown but anticipated moment.

In truth, it’s more than water.

Substantial and solid but bubbling, suggesting an in-between one thing and another.

One place and another.

You couldn’t float in it, but I doubt you’d sink.

I’m awake now. Suddenly I watch moving cold river water in another place.

Clear flow and green plants that wave at me from under a thin layer are moving like pianists fingers.

I float on.

An niente.

In the background, the distant sound of some vehicle moving funnily.

And my old house under the clouds.

-Left hand to right hand Dear right hand.

It’s me.

You’re opposite, but we never seem to talk.

I’m sorry not to say much. I’m rather busy keeping touch with everybody else.

Most of though all I’d like to say…

I can’t live with you, or without you.

Stay with me.

I wouldn’t want to loose you. right hand to left hand Join me in prayer some day.

-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 sunlight tracks, which make visible and illuminate that which suspends the air we breath.

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

After all, To live is to leave traces they say.

Next I stand on the path not sure of which Way to turn or in who to trust.

Left to chance, right you are .

Upwards in ascension?

My arms now out-stretch and I dare not hold back.

What is this?

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.

Golden bird with granular song rests.

-Windmap Talk to me in moments gone where time waits, allowing my walk back to 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 higher 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!

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