Cognizance

Cognizance

some climb the mountain.
Others remain
in fair-seeming meadows
shovelling straw
into hollow walls.

Swiss mountain hut Image: Tai-wiki-widbee Click to visit

Swiss mountain hut
Image: Tai-wiki-widbee
Click to visit

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You

you

all my life
you have
stood
between
me
and my
dreams
obsession
possession
you are
my life’s bane
every time i
see you
seeing me
my heart
screams
the tears
i now weep
for the
tears and
the pain
in the
souls
that I love
when i’m
gone
you’ll
remain
reflecting

James Ford broken mirror

James Ford broken mirror

Nose

Nose

This morning I discovered a hair
growing on the tip of my nose.
I’ve always cast myself as the bearer of
an unblemished nose, attractive even,
in the manner of those perfectly
symmetrical marble appendages
adorning the gods of Rome.
Oh well.
Tweezers flashed.
Pilus expelled. Antinous again, sure enough;
but the nose reneged its place
and refused to cede to vacuous
space the foreground of my
consciousness–
Clever nose.
It sensed, in a whiff that wafted on
the noontime breeze from across
the expanse of time to,
somehow,
emerge from my neighbour’s kitchen window,
the redolence of school meals.
I am sent.
An eternal instant: I’m a happy,
clever and extremely cute little boy,
standing eagerly in line in my grey
short pants and pullover, holding
my dinner plate and breathing
deeply the delicious aroma of
cheese pie ‘n’ chips, now
transmuted into
the poignant essence of
youth.
Gone.
Yes, my neighbours cooking can
certainly get the juices flowing!

The "Lansdowne Antinous" Image: Wikipedia Click on image to visit

The “Lansdowne Antinous”
Image: Wikipedia
Click on image to visit

Hike

Hike

Click on image to visit zaputonemo's blog

Click on image to visit Nemo’s blog

Yesterday I feasted
On the exquisite prose of hitch-hikers.
This morning I extricated myself,
Shed the trappings of substance,
Turned my back on the phony
Surface of banal existence,
And hiked without a hitch.
Hitch-hikers seek-out the art of life.
They hitch rides in strange cars
And jump in and out of lives.
They view celluloid-like dimensions
In alternate realities,
Through alternating windscreens.
Hitch-hikers go with the clouds
Not in them nor under them.
They take cameras and capture
Drips of eternity in the instant of splashing
Unrepeatable patterns on the canvass of mortality.
At night they sleep in abandoned doughnut shops
And see Salvador’s clock oozing through
Shadows between broken tiles in the ceiling.
They see reflections in paneless windows.
They dance with fate and lose themselves in life.
Then, filled with creativity and a sense that
Everything is a metaphor for everything else,
They return and write beautiful prose
For us cyber-hikers to delight in.
I only got as far as the park,
And my adventure only lasted two hours,
But in that brief time
I saw a sonnet, three Haiku’s, and this.

Beauty on a crowded street

Beauty on a crowded street

Axons swoon
to hues of amethyst redolence
in eyes that drink passion
from the fusion of her essence
with the air.
Demure Aphrodite?
Wielding the vine of Pothos to a deluge of lust?
Or just some other Lady of Cythera
inciting carnal passions
with the guile of Venus.

Autumn Loaf

Autumn Loaf

 

A plastic bottle and a well-licked
tuna fish can, both flashing topless
in shadows that strobe the gutter
on the street below my balcony.
Between them, misplaced,
A leaf.
My shirt sticks to my back like cling-film
on well-kneaded, well-risen dough;
a languid simile,
but it’s far too humid for cool metaphor
in the suburbs of Santo Domingo
this mid-September.
Even the simile doesn’t cut
—tap-tap,
hear that hollow sound?
Means I’m done.

Little Dog

Little Dog

The little dog is old and grey
From childhood you loved him
and you gave him to me
a lover’s sacrifice
on that far-away day
when you kissed him in playful parting
I held him often
seeking something
anything
of your essence
yet no comforter was he
most pungent
bitter-sweet
memory
The void you left those many years ago remains
derelict somewhere in my soul
He was beautiful bathed in the fragrance of you
Just a tatty old stuffed-toy
that we both loved.

Library

Library

Words in trees in trees
silent cacophony
echoes in varnish
words lost in silent dronings
generations whispering between covers
ancient oak seasoned with lifetimes loves and dreams
tomes in high branches dignified by atrophy
and grime of a thousand sweaty fingers
gold-gilt leaves rustling in winds
of collective rumination
as all await rapture of spring
reopening