Poetry Blog by ray pool

I kept   filling   the gaps

with fish             but still

the water came through

until there was  no deep

           left deep enough

      no fish large enough

        to fill my fish mouth

                       with water.

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Don't look now

but here comes Julie Christie in mourning;

Nick Roeg is a flash of colour in a gondola.

Those doe eyes of Donald Sutherland

beseeching flocks of birds up the canals

escaping his presentiments

reflected in mosaics

that shatter dreams of old sinking doges

in wet flannel palaces.

Your ticket will soon expire,

best drop it and clear out

before the e...

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Ensnared in the lyrics of romantic songs

dressed to kill with a story to tell

no one wants to hear.

Lend me your ear.

Not today - nor any other day

yet the lyrics weave their spell.

Hollow footsteps up my spine

those of only me and mine.

A lonely echo of a silent voice.

Is there a meaning?   who can tell.

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The cyclist in his struggle for hill supremacy

seems to be keeping up with the hawk overhead.

Competition has no place in it.

Then suddenly wings flex in turbulent air

divert from the snake path

off to far fields

where tiny dimples appear on a fringe of wheat.

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This platform is for Infinity

spake the railway worker

his words lost on the wind

as he passed.

I was looking in the wrong direction

but I knew what he meant.

If Infinity is a slow process

that would account for the gap

that I was minded of

between me and where I thought I was going.

and was it worth waiting for?

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It's always the insignificant that takes hold

by surprise.

The toys of children,

formerly cherished then discarded,

victims to moving on,

though sometimes in the fullness of their purpose

while still held in thrall,

something goes badly wrong;

the caretaker gets taken away.

That's when those toys remain as pearls to parents

along with photographs

as remin...

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Mum looks out of the photowallet

on a special day, specially posed,

a spray of flowers on an oak ashtray column

to one side,

her hands neatly folded on her lap

in that bloom of confidence

that says it's ok finally to be alone

as long as people still care

which of course we do and they do.

It sits in my shadow undefeated,

a beacon to light a corner.

It's not qu...

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Amidst life is death

as in my workshop,

just above the window

a bier for moths, trapped

and drained by the invisible lord of webs.

In fact there are two when I think of it

which sometimes I do,

and leave them  as proof of

the scaling down of needs and purpose.

The window plays tricks there,

shows them in a beauty parade

a haunting disturbance of light and...

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