Poetry Blog by David Blake

Everyone Deserves A Rainbow

I am feet on ground and air-staring,

stare-airing;

I wash and tumble and dry

before guano-flecked facade,

drenched winter water,

and sick-stain, damp.

Short of laughter - loose,

so leave me untethered,

ill of manner and dead-weathered.

 

Nausea paints no blue sky,

peace dusts my face with wind,

the autumn has shaken me

to my very core;

trees that cover pai...

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poem

Story

The arch-light at the end of the view

from my door is

weather-bitten, with mossed steps,

beneath the thumbprint of moon

(the stone, in the fruit

of the afternoon).

Sideways I glance,

over the hedge;

there, spring has hit,

and apple-tree, honeysuckle

and lacquered gate,

preen idly.

 

I remembered the last time,

your hands closing both of mine,

as we stre...

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Ebbing

Beside the water,

torch-lit in wide places,

the muddy track fades

and ash and oak are ragged

paper props,

before, beside, behind.

 

The thaw bleeds out

over marsh and moor,

swept away back east

with lines of fields

pockmarked

and played out.

 

My own earth is in the box

where

the heart smokes

and is painted on the floor,

where dogs rush to me a...

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2018

Short Film

A running tap in a cluttered room,

the water through dust-light.

Someone stares from a close distance,

unmoving. The sound fills the space.

 

A body lies outside, on the paving,

curled sideways, fully clothed.

One fist open, the other

hidden. Dawn breaks slow above.

 

Two bright young things, in hats,

scarves and gloves, rush breathless

to the window of a jewell...

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2017

The Way The Wind Is Blowing

Getting famous

with wilderness;

judgement's feather-light

body-blows, cascade

through vertigo.

 

Too old to start

afresh, AGAIN;

swimming in the scorched

starlight, of youth, eyes

unblemished, bright.

 

This is all fair,

where would it be

otherwise? How could

the cymbals clang warped

for us, weak heroes?

 

Or soften, as fruit

rich, nourishin...

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2018

RECESSION

And long may it hit,

the concave triplex hole;

while hidden in a room with no walls,

smears here, and a straw-bed,

and a turntable and the words

have too oft bled;

I canonise these rooms

and walk within them and their dust

and see out through telescopes,

and watch time reflect back:

the umbrella and the border collie

and the post office and an indent,

where thos...

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what?


Recent Comments

David Blake on Story (Sun, 11 Feb 2018 04:29 pm)

raypool on Story (Mon, 15 Jan 2018 04:20 pm)

keith jeffries on Story (Mon, 15 Jan 2018 09:34 am)

Douglas MacGowan on Story (Mon, 15 Jan 2018 12:13 am)

David Blake on Ebbing (Sat, 13 Jan 2018 09:17 pm)

raypool on Ebbing (Wed, 10 Jan 2018 08:19 pm)

Cynthia Buell Thomas on Moon Haiku (or 'How Poets Can Pale Into Insignificance') (Sun, 3 Dec 2017 05:44 pm)

Colin Hill on Father (Wed, 20 Sep 2017 09:20 am)

Tony Hill on Father (Tue, 19 Sep 2017 08:32 pm)

David Blake on Grow, Green Garden (Mon, 11 Sep 2017 10:41 pm)

Colin Hill on Grow, Green Garden (Sun, 10 Sep 2017 08:31 am)

David Blake on Pheasants (Tue, 27 Jun 2017 10:22 pm)

raypool on Pheasants (Tue, 27 Jun 2017 05:14 pm)

Phillip Kelly on Radio Play (Mon, 26 Jun 2017 11:34 pm)

Stu Buck on The Roast (Wed, 14 Jun 2017 01:25 pm)

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