REFLECTIONS INTO FALL (Palindromedary Sonnet)
PUBLD/2017-09 Crystal (101)
This
beauty in a season I could touch,
it
begs another glance, another taste
and
I just want to say it looks so much
like
yesterday when Autumn was all waste.
Reflecting,
as Kay does, with vibrant colour,
that
cake is here to cut and breathe and eat.
No
candles on the wind snuffed-out as thorough
as
this scene's memory. My place's seat
is
here with you; and him; and them. You know
it
is the place we see beyond the moon.
If
I could pebble-throw this pond, and how!
Its
reflection's imperfection, gone too soon.
Can
you see too? The birds have flown to fall?
Their
colours leave my dreamscape in their thrall.
Their
colours leave my dreamscape in their thrall.
Can
you see too, the birds have flown to fall?
It’s
reflections, imperfection, gone too soon,
if
I could pebble-throw this pond, and how
it
is the place we see beyond the moon.
Is
here with you, and him, and them you know,
As
this scene's memory, my place's seat?
No
candles on the wind snuffed-out as thorough:
that
cake is here to cut and breathe and eat.
Reflecting,
as Kay does, with vibrant colour
like
yesterday, when Autumn was all waste.
And
I just want to say it looks so much:
it
begs another glance, another taste,
this beauty in a season I could touch.
[Inspired by ‘The Rock’ T S Eliot] Crystal Magazine, 2008-11/PUBLD
The tiger in the night pads with
soft claws,
his breath as Aslan melts the
icing air
and turns in quest of prey,
but then a pause,
and wraps his dawn-fur close
and richly-fair,
too bright for mortal vision
which comes by slow degrees
too light to touch
and chills the shivers of
last night, grown cold
with labours, bloody, futile
and not much
except obscurity of good’s
cool gold.
O Greater Light, we praise
Thee for the less.
We warmly bathe in salt of
buoyant morning,
raised high upon the waters
of our day,
flick through damp newsprint
of the world’s red dawning
and sting as aspirations
flush that may
the eastern light our spires
touch at morning.
And soon inscape slumps
shadows’ lengthened hound
that slinks into the shade
that howls at noon,
where stress is twitching
instress corner’s pound
of wraiths that seize the
black dog’s tail too soon.
The light that slants upon
our western doors at evening
slits pools of hiss and slish
on sonic waves,
of moths and mice and moles
and hedgehog snuffles,
slants golden eyes around
long-brambled graves
and snakes the shadows,
breath’s expiring ruffles,
the twilight over stagnant
pools at batflight.
The earth is shrouded in a
misted lawn
where Eden rises in the damp
of dreams,
or where the night-frost
clutches pad’s pricked thorn
to wrench and unplant tares
where life unseams
moon light and star light,
owl and moth light.
Where darkness rises, firefly
power trebles,
yet seeming strongest with an
hour till dawnlight.
How bright the luminosity of
pebbles
and how the porch of home
will cheer, like sighting
glow-worm glowlight on a
grassblade.
The Tyger, Tyger’s burning
bright; digress
where lambs are safely penned
within a Ram,
to bond the golden eyes of
paper tigress
and snake Euphrates to a
mane’s blocked dam.
But be ye satisfied that you have
light
to crook the shingles’
ninety-nine of doubt
and find a pebble pummelled
in the stream
of living waters marbled to a
clout,
where David looks away, as in
a dream;
enough to take your step and
find your foothold.
If
I had a daughter:
she
would dress stunningly
with
nails and perfect hair,
matching
styles that blend or clash;
to
make a statement.
If
I had a daughter,
she
would organise her boudoir
with
sparkly lights and drapes and designs,
her
treasures categorised and stashed.
Dreams
and hopes and future.
If
I had a daughter,
she
would spend our money on fashions, make-up,
killer
heels, designer bags,
regular
hairstyles, gel nails, or spas.
Something
to make us proud.
If
I had a daughter,
she
would tidy her room weekly.
Deal
with laundry/ironing, splash out on cooking
a
family meal (smiles and compliments, no matter burnt).
Maybe
– sometimes – wash up.
If
I had a daughter,
we
would drive her anywhere, collect her late.
Smile
over the girly piles of clothes (from one night out).
Compete
with Dad for attention; cat fight;
giggle
over movies/Chick Lit/tat.
If
I had a daughter,
she
would worry us until safely homed – always.
Drink
as much/comment on the food/
have
conversations I couldn’t join in; with Dad.
And, you lose your sons. Keep your daughters…
Brave New World: I have…
Tidying, decluttering,
sorting.
Will they take dust-ridden
Charity?
Unsorted? Missing parts?
I need a bin sack – now.
Why are they sat around
chatting?
Do they know what’s needed?
What goes where? What to
keep?
They’re laughing; I’m
stressing.
It’s like some TV show…
overwhelming.
No smiles here, I’m boxing
up.
A pile of toys arrives,
upstairs:
the man is sorting, downstairs.
Useful, how? Where to put
what.
Make the bed. Tape it up.
Sellotape, please.
Sinking under clutter, no way
out.
I want, I need…
all bathrooms, with no loo.
My son is gone. My daughter’s
25.
Daughter?
I wake up.
At Cross Purposes
[Inspired by Heidi Kaplan’s grave post/FB/2023-03]
I am so cross, so tall, I’m
leaning in
to you sweet rosy blushing
rock.
We are a pair, I’ll guarantee
the sin
if you will rest within this
lock.
I have no use for words now,
learning’s fine,
and we are much of muchness
now.
Positions are so close, don’t
draw the line
before you read my lasting
vow.
My occupancy’s vacant (or
quite silent),
let’s fall together into
earth.
It’s moving for me now, so
violent,
such subjugation of your
worth.
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