On the black tarmac road
next to the silent driver
in the rhythm of the engine
thoughts emerge to live a little,
growing into adulthood as poems:
oversized obese sestina’s,
frolicking free verses
or remaining youngsters, the size of a mere haiku,
before they die in the gloom of red traffic lights,
and buried quietly next to the dead sheep on the moors.
Then we go on and the driver never looks back.
A look ahead to the 2 poetry volumes “Roads 1″ and “Roads 2″ which are due to be published by Winter Goose in March next year :)
What has been said, all fondness, now is gone, replaced
by murmurations of indifferent looking words, unbound.
I connect the dots they are to make a life line
for us both, but where are you? The buoy has sunk.
Clueless do we swim in darkest water with no ground.
Still life goes on. Today I watched the storm
turn over littered pages: words once printed -
fading dots, they spoke to me without a sound.
Maybe it’s time to read back all your letters
but I don’t expect the fondness will be found.
I saw you for a moment as you were -
your shoulders lower and a silent stare;
you had been gone a while.
When you saw me, you dug out a smile,
although, let’s face it, we both knew
that it was over, me and you.
Oh fashion, I’m so sorry I don’t care!
I can’t be bothered with what clothes to wear.
So all the best. I’ll keep the grey mohair.
The end of the day softens our faces;
you look younger, life is over
until we both shall rise again.
We linger a bit, watching birds nestle
in the ruins of the sunset
and I go first to wait for you.
When I met you I became a poet,
about to read his work to a high brow audience,
realizing it was his shopping list he started to declare.
“Bread! Milk! Those cookies with chocolate!
Detergent on sale… Toliet paper?” I must have talked rubbish.
You applauded with your eyes though.
When both phones die -
and we are there where the island ends,
ten miles away from civilisation,
in November, and it’s evening, a storm is due,
the tide about to catch us -
I’m sure you will convince me
that all is well. That we’ll be fine.
Though I can see two softly rattling skeletons
wash ashore on the coast of Germany,
six years later. Yours and mine.
Your skin is paper
as my fingers read
the lines in your face
(though I know them by heart)
sensing what is new,
cherishing familiar stories,
rounding your chin,
then you read me the latest
as the nail of my index finger
the softness and hard
of your Adam’s apple
feeling the drum beat
from your heart
the comma at the end
of page one,
wanting to turn you over
and read on
where I left off.
Let’s rise, you say,
the paper is delivered.