“A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.” ~Robert Frost

When the poet ceases singing
 There’s an end to everything:
 Birds in the trees, music,
 Tones and timbre, plangent and deep,
 Tempests flare in the mind of man
 Foreshadow that terrible realisation
 That you too have followed this same cliff path
 On days of luminosity and in the...

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september sun sinks softly into burnished sea: indian summer CP

https://youtu.be/2ymkBEhdHBE?si=b6moBgA-K8TwhWr8

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the Celtic goddess no less

I sought an emblem for you
you declined my wish for you
to stay
for one more divinely appointed day
anonymously if desired;
so February began to grow on me
from bulb and bone, a bog poet’s throne
it isn’t.

The roaring of the wild Atlantic way
held sway for a little while,
a millenia or two perhaps,
time excused herself, drifted off into the gulf strea...

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Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away

 

When sadnesses besiege me,
at the dying of the light,
starlight illuminates
the end of days,
then star-crossed lovers
just quietly drift away.

We sigh silently, out of sight
of mirrors, water, eyes, light,
and find, momentarily,
mankind loses her disguise
out of sight, out of mind.

We spin and ...

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only love can break your heart

 

The seas are wild tonight
 As I write, far from any coast;
 Speckled with salty brine and afraid,
 I spy in the broken mirror
 The broken boy who is following me
 Following me.
 Down dale, up tree, crawling all over me:
 Still, the ghost of my brother
 Stands next to me,
 Leaning forward to see
 The ghost of my son
 Spinning and laughing all ar...

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The death of Jo, the orphan crossing-sweeper, in Dickens’ novel ‘Bleak House’ :

"Thankee, sir. Thankee, sir. They'll have to get the key of the gate afore they can take me in, for it's allus locked. And there's a step there, as I used for to clean with my broom. It's turned wery dark, sir. Is there any light a-comin?"

"It is coming fast, Jo."

Fast. The cart is shaken all to piece...

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“O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she.

Art Magazine. Skills and Imagination.CLAUDE MONET. 1840- 1926

The red-gold glow of stormy autumn
 fades into winter doom
 as leafy-mist lights this mid-January dawn recalling me, 
 in-curiously, to the design hidden in words;
 words whirl like smoke signals rising from a fire,
 from a gun, from a life tended by an old man in a blacked o...

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“Poetry is the journal of the sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.” — Carl Sandburg, from The Atlantic, March 1923. 

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I kind of deal with terror and fear and isolation and abandonment — David Bowie

In the apple market
your South London twang
accompanies the many undulations
of time.

Your wild androgyny
mirrors the mirror
of yourself.
You help me 
skim off the water
of childhood,
like a shaking dog.

You lit up, spot-lighted,
an iridescence of sound
Ziggy!
Your songs were the water
I neede...

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If I have any beliefs about immortality, it is that certain dogs I have known will go to heaven, and very, very few persons.

That early April morn, dewy and cool,
Charlie was still lunging on the leash
as we walked up Quaker bridge towards the field.
Charlie was born wise: he did not suffer fools gladly.

How he put up with me, God alone knows. Anyroadup,
this memorable morning Charli...

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people come and go, only the roads remain

Shadows behind the sun, faint echo of words,
meanings stuck in transit, the music of the Byrds,
brimming lives at stake, my friend, as all hearts ache,
years drift by like phantoms, like passions of the heart,
silence breeding silence, pink faeries play their part,
forget what you remember, give and never take,
rip the veil off the mysteries, ...

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