ThousandSwissTunnels

two mobiles in hand,
highway, heading
for the top, cursing
thousand swiss tunnels
with just connections
to darkness, exhausted
and cow bells shout
summer, we’re all

placed on a seat
between the lush
and the desperate;
not loving nor being loved
nibbling on us and

i know the day
doesn’t belong to me
nor i to it
as nothing really
belongs to anything ‘cos

we’re all sleepers, silenced,
brought to rest by the
click-clack rhythm

of the rails, bewitched
by yellow buttercups in empty fields,
no strength to fight, cry, cross
those milky lakes
when life

burns us to pointless
in our needs and hungry
like children
for food we can’t get,
which doesn’t get us – satisfied.

.
i shake my head, then nod
as if to confirm that things
don’t look
as they are,
synchronizing seamless
with the soft vibration of my mobile,

rubbing eyes, i
take my coat and
wiping our blood from the windscreen,
we never look back

.
…it’s One Shot Wednesday again…and i’ll be your host tonight. throw your best poem in and have fun with what the others come up…sign up opens 5pm EST….hope to see you over at One Stop Poetry

Tim

sunday morning,
i creep into your room,
lying next to you,
inhaling the years,

you’re tucked securely
between the night and
my breath, your hair
damp on my cheek and
snuggled in my arms,

i spend eternity -
holding you and letting go
like waves and waves,
the room around us
teenage mess and your
hand warm on my shoulder,
kissing away the distance

as you grunt and smile
with sleepy eyes and

we both know, we never
grew up

.
just a moment with my 19 year old son yesterday..

holder of the grail

.
on rays of light
we let ourselves into
the city,
approaching with the sea,
giving in

to the illusion,
we’re heroes over
heaps of steel,
concrete strongholds,
knights from
nine to five and holders

of the golden grail,
your smile is dark
between my thighs, your
city walls invisible,
you ride on swords of
light beam ads and

when we least expect,
you’ll chop off our head &
smeared with coal tar,
swallow us
before morning dawns.

.
linking up with One Stop Poetry…the above photo was shot by photographer Scott Wyden

close beyond

.
you’re painting me in pixels,
filling them with
color, shapes and patterns,

cell by cell detected
by your brush,
flowing up your fingers, shoulders,
and then rest

between your eyes that want to
understand and see

beyond the obvious -
leaving space to

have me breathe and tell of
what i am or more important
of the places
i have never been,
circled with soft strokes and

shaded with the magic
of a moment’s inspiration,
i am held
between your hands, divided into
tiny parts – then flying
. 

..linking my poem up with friday poetically, inspired by Chuck Close’s paintings

my cv is waterproof

i’ve tried something different with the recording of the poem…hope you enjoy..

hands in trouser pockets,
khaki and pink panther polo
no horse, i walk
on small town idyll with
a sunset squished
between my headphones,

charlie parker going
mad and you,
huddled up like lovers
on the front lid of you car,

polish life from coal black
varnish, lunatic antiseptic
without a party, fireworks,
mad man’s thunder dance
on empty streets,

inside your lawn gnome
paradise lurks desperation,
see it dangling on your
rear view mirror right beside
the skull, forwarding life

next what/What’s next and How
you gonna saturate/eliminate
the scratches
on these shining lacquer spots,

we’re flawless,
flowery jawless &
scents of clean slate washing
cling, expecting, reacting like
tie dyed penetration threads

to us, bad luck /tant pis ‘cos we
sing loudly, off-key, insanely
comically bizzare – ya know

i have no use for polished
cars and shining armors

but take my slinghot
to the rainless forests and
labyrinths of
brass-fed blues hue clous,
emptying all my pockets, shaking

charlie off my ears, feeding the
last crumbs of the sunset
to the birds and swim
the next lake naked

.
wanna meet some real cool poets..? then you should check out one shot wednesday… sign up opens 5pm EST..

scars on your hands/55

i watch you
spreading butter
on your toast as if it was
a night gown,

glistening white &
saturated in the
evening sun

you talk about your day
& health insurances
but i stopped listening,

scanning the scars
you carry proudly
on your hands, tight
as your wedding ring

& suddenly i know
how much i want you.

guess this proves that women don’t listen to their husbands…smiles
linking up with g-man’s friday 55  and brian miller’s love poem prompt over at  friday poetically

a hundred charcoaled letters later

thinking of your notes,
i dream of you,

sitting next to me
with ink smeared lips,
hands caressing your pen
as if it were my breasts

i think of words, ripe,
falling from your tongue -
plucked and squished
to juice by summer fairies

and i want to preserve their taste
for scentless days

Don’t talk
or think or even breathe
you smile  – just
close your eyes, drink, trace
their patterns while they fall
to rest,

melt with the graphite of your pencil
and let the words
invading you,

splitting your bowels
with a crimson spear,
cracking you open ’til

you can’t be sure if you -
just dive, die, dance or drown

in a HundredCharcoaledFountains,
spilling your life like ink
across the barriers you have built

.

.
Anton Gourman wrote a wonderful poem, based on this one and I can highly recommend the read – you can find it here
.
and…it’s one shot wednesday again…gates open at 5pm EST ..let’s  flood the place with poetry…hope to see you there..

indigo miles

we breathe the dark away, and flow
directionless through empty pipes
step up the edge on muted cries

where crackling fires give soft-pale glow
i touch you light and stop the night
pure silver shining sailboats blow

traversing indigo for miles
we breathe the dark away, and flow

.

.
The octain is a new poem form, invented by Luke Prater – jump over to One Stop Poetry’s Form Monday to read the interview with Luke

Octain Structure is:

eight lines as two tercets and a couplet, eight syllables per line with the first line repeated (as much as possible) as the last. Meter is iambic or trochaic tetrameter, but fine to just count eight syllables per line for those who prefer that.

Rhyme scheme:

A-b-b

a-c/c-a
b-A

(A = repeated refrain line. ‘c/c’ refers to line five having midline (internal) rhyme, which is different to the a- and b-rhymes)

not yet there

.
we lie like dreamers
between yesterday’s sun
and the rippled hopes
of tomorrow,

squished tightly
into sandy silence,
bound to the base and

covered with seaweed,
we patiently wait

for the open sky to
breathe the breath
of its children and

bent low,
knees covered with mud,
we scribble
bits & pieces of our life
into wobbly ground,

the wind blows us
even and
your stubble on my skin

feels wild like the waters
we rise

Today’s one shoot sunday prompt was shot by UK photographer Fee Easton

Song for Miriam

a very imperfect song for my perfect daughter…