Poetry Blog by Adam Whitworth

High above your head a pastel dove hangs-
but why would you look away from your daily concerns?
Drive through weathers to reach your destination.
The bird is gliding there. Stand stock still 
for that momentous decision. The bird hovers there.
From the distance imposed on me
I follow the bird with a watchful eye
and therefore yourself through all your battles.
You live your sorrows an...

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High above your head a white bird hangs
but why would you look away from your daily concerns?
Drive through weathers to reach your destination.
The bird is gliding there. Stand stock still 
for a momentous decision. The bird hovers there.
From the distance imposed on me I follow the bird with a watchful eye
and therefore yourself through all your battles.
You live your sorrows and joys as y...

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one hand on a stopped clock 
weather-vane stuck in jeopardy
from norman towers logical crows fly 
but the warren below holds many shocks
concealed obstacles, stumbling blocks 

homeless heap at the edge of the high street
not a symbol to hang a story on

empty crisp packet tumbleweeds past
streamlined cars full of themselves outstripped
 

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There was nothing like a ghostly face at the window

but the face of yesterday's child reflected in your own

one note of your song foretold a thousand

a single raindrop fell for the deluge to follow

Whose place I take accepting your testimony I do not know

the greatest spirit can do no more than witness

where a wound is revealed typically a thousand might be

no j...

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A collection of poems is made to be loved.
I trust each one will be loved, by many.
I pass by unmoved until the moment
I feel myself gliding fast across ice,
each breath an exhilerating potion.
What do others find in the odes they memorise?
Assume there's love somewhere hereabouts.
Baffling like the flocks I love that love the sky,
the shoals that love the seas.
I should turn again to the...

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Where once we would double-dig 

the claggy clay with all our might;

our various jackets discarded;

grasping at handles -fate would be fair-

now we walk alongside someone else's fence

as if in need of a guide rail. And after will come 

our lamenting wraiths howling as they must 

their warning for men too well adapted, losing options.

Already whispers rise that will not ...

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There's a stand of woods to which I'm drawn
hand on the bark to be sure.
And tinctures right earthy  
now real, now elusive, grow heady
among spires all rooted to the core.

And you want your love to know your love?
Stand here but more than enough.
And swear sweet this love new made
of the grove's inspired clay,
your longings conveyed by the doves.

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