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HE PLAYS HIS FLAMENCO GUITAR
he plays his flamenco guitar
knowing who you are,
seducing his singer
to bring her
from bleak harbour masts
to his contrasts.
he knows the equations
of her close flirtations
and doesn’t judge her glances
for wanting what romance is-
vibrating in voices and strings
of fornicating feelings.
her prose photosynthesis
illuminates his
shades that colour mountains
and drops of wishes in mosaic fountains-
she loves the Picasso from his pen
and horse smell like Andalucian men
her reversed body senses
inside his defences-
as her sea wind
billows in his revealing
Avalon through the mist,
sweet loved, firm kissed.
LOVE IS, ALL IS
love is,
all is-
light and dark,
shade and shadow,
high-low
wide-narrow
crater under rainbow.
tramp or truffle you chance to meet
and take your time to share and eat;
a mythical ark
in-out skylark,
so fluttery butterfly in buddleia stomach
that wakes you up
more muttery in your head-
with jade of jealousy
and truest thread
come concave and convex,
mirrored and mouthed in images and text
with-without key,
but only borrowed
today and tomorrowed
and after that, what will be-
something ethereal
deaths’ music can’t serial,
alone, then together
in its own weather
sensual and free.
IN MAID’S WATER
we’ve left the well-footed
road,
the rutted
and rebutted
road
of shadows cast
by towered glass.
opened closed curtains
for fusty moths,
chanted white spells with Wiccan’s
goths-
left pictured
rooms and halls-
become un-scriptured
hills and squalls-
in maid’s water
pouring down her
erect chalk man,
like a wild gypsy,
love tipsy
partisan,
smelling of cinnabar
and his cigar,
swirling
like whirling
clouds
while the changed wind howls.
In Maid’s Water is also published in issue 5 of Catweazle magazine …http://catweazleclub.com/?page_id=484
IN THE TALK OF MY TOBACCO SMOKE
i have disconnected self
from the wire of the world
retreated to this unmade croft
of wild grass and savage stone
moored mountains
set in sea
blue black green grey
dyed all the colours of my mood
and liquid language-
to climb rocks
instead of rungs
living with them
moving around their settlements
of revolutionary random place
for simple solitary glory.
i am reduced again
to elements and matter
that barter her body for food
teasing and turning
her flesh to take words and plough.
rapid rain
slaps the skin
on honest hands
strongly gentle
while sowing seeds
the way i touch my lover
in the talk of my tobacco smoke:
now she knows
she tastes
like all the drops
of my dreams
falling on the forest
of our Lothlorien.
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FORAGE IN ME
forage in me
amongst the dunes
still damp in sun and wind
as the tide retreats-
for driftwood
and strange shaped pebbles.
where have they been,
these abandoned voices,
with colours
and textures,
wild
and domestic,
moving
and rooted,
sooting and scenting the air-
being engraved
by beauties and conflicts,
uncovering how love is only rented
jumping ship
when it sights new land.
inner changes,
have not changed anything
out there-
and when what moved in
is all moved out,
we can sometimes sit
in this displaced time,
with drifting belongings
and pebbled thoughts,
aware of strangers
moving slower than the clouds
deliberately
doing the same.
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THE MESS OF THROWN OFF CLOTHES
i listen
to your love beads glisten
in the flotsam
of my room-
we make them
from samurai sword folds
at forge and loom
in the mess of thrown off clothes.
so many smoke me kisses
at portal doors,
and mithril wishes
on primitive floors-
take us back again
through heath and fen
to imitate
lost landscape-
cycle
and circle
sky and stone
outside and home-
in love in less
with your heavenliness,
and loneliness
durable under duress.
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POMEGRANATE FLESH
ask those
who grow old-
some fruits are nicer
when they’re riper.
you don’t stop
the clock
on the one who chose
you to hold-
her pomegranate
is still your sonnet
of sepia feelings and flesh,
sensuously sweet and fresh.
although the mirror never lies,
it shows the beauty that lives
as it dies
and gives
its own reflection
of your perfection
to me
then and now,
each memory
taken
by the lenses
somehow,
preserved
by your words
and curves
in my senses.
our dance,
that thrilled
in its intricate
tango on the floor,
is still filled
with time intimate
romance
and more-
talking rubicon of reason,
in layer, upon layer of season
so sedimentary
since you entered me-
and i consumed
your silky mesh
of pink perfumed
pomegranate flesh.
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COMPATIBLE COMBUSTIONS
these are my wasted
years,
the open pout of pussy never tasted
years
and head without a crown
hanging down.
i watch fate,
unsure of what her template
makes of me
glancing back at fallen beauty.
will she like the way i tingle
in her socket,
or my salad tongue
of tales singing heathen songs-
about strange
pagan customs,
crofting the floor
and her velour
surely meant-
that jingle
in her pocket
like loose change
fondled then spent.
i can make more
compatible combustions
out of
uz
and love,
than those musical Etruscans-
whose heirs, have seduced each majority
into peaceful poverty,
by adding abstractions to its face-
altering nature’s position and place
evolving for minority.
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ARAGORN TO ARWEN
i hate magnolia and beige-
you are in my time,
but mine, is the crime
in your change.
nature regenerates
without us herself,
but my self
without you, waits.
i know you meet me
all the way
in how you say-
completely,
and take to mind
my awkward
seeing forward
is wisdom kind.
being real, is conceding
we are open
and not token
when revealing-
how quiet beauty and healed scars,
survived each battle, to enjoy desires
here, now, around these fires
watching stars,
whose incandescent powers,
so fluorescent
and omnipresent
mirror ours.
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EIGHT TREASURES OF SIMPLE PLEASURES
a sensual spoken
strawberry cut open
thought
brought
me to your secret place
with my face.
in the altered mirage
that history presents,
your even visage
and words have sounds and scents
that repair
the despair
and remake vanity’s varnished vase
with plain consents
until the figures
in the patterns
and the glaze
reconfigure
what has happened
and are swayed
to be themself
and not the mould of someone else.
i come back to you
in the porcelain white and blue
of Ming and Xiantzi
rustic and romancy
bearing eight treasures
of simple pleasures:
heart’s love
life’s soul
passions blood
mind whole
and wisdom
instead of blindness
to share a kingdom
with unselfish kindness.
CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
voices
make their choices
in the game-
to remain
loyal, or abstain
and stunt reputation
for self gratification.
get real
profits of career soon heal
the sacrifice of bold ideal-
when the grey suits in the system
say: preserving status quo, is the wisdom
in this play. other tunes, are moments of fame-
memorable then forgotten in the main
stagnating stream of politics,
where embedded institutions share the same
out of tune,
out of reach hot air balloon
playing unmusical licks
treading us down in the gravity
of tribal tricks
with ghost notes
wearing uniforms of haved normality
in the foreground
and background
with loaded guns inside
and outside
their tunic coats-
ready to suppress any massed intention
of Bastille insurrection.
you don’t have the right to repeal my name,
or make me think and do the same
as you.
your way, is extinction-
only seconds
as time reckons,
a philosophy founded on myths,
twisted in technological trysts
tuned to suit you.
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THE TWO SALTIMBANQUES
when words don’t come easy
they make do with silence
and find something in nothing
to say to each other
when the absinthe runs out.
his glass and ego
are bigger than hers,
his elbows sharper,
stabbing into the table
and the chambers of her heart
cobalt clown
without a smile.
she looks away
with his misery behind her eyes
and sadness on her lips,
back into her curves
and the orange grove
summer of her dress
worn and blown by sepia time
where she painted
her cockus giganticus
lying down
naked
for her brush and skin,
mingling intimate scents
undoing and doing each other.
for some of us,
living back then
is more going forward
than living in now
and sitting here-
at this table,
with these glasses
standing empty of absinthe,
faces wanting hands
to be a bridge of words
and equal peace
as Guernica approaches.
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WHEN LIGHTENING LINES
young, or old-
love lines
pastel painted,
know times
of ambiguous gold
and seams of red
become related
and run through sky,
then set in perfections
below fields-
where lying down
allows their imperfections
to be revealed.
moods purify
any black grey white silences that try
to hide and wait in thunder,
before flashing
and fading
above us under
a sheltering tree
embracing obliviously.
tomorrow,
we can follow
different times
when lightening lines.
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A WOMAN DOES NOT HAVE TO WAIT
under the old canal bridge you said
so i can hear the echoes
in your head
repeating mine
this time
when it throws
our voices from roof into water
where i caught her
reflection half in half out of sunshine.
that's when i hear Gershwin
playing his piano in you
working out the notes
to rhapsody in blue
that makes me float
light and thin
deep within
through the air
when you put your comforts there.
Waits was drinking whisky from his bottle
while i sat through old days with Aristotle
knowing i must come up to date
because a woman does not have to wait.
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Feel free to comment and follow my blog if you like the poems. Regards. Strider
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