Fathers Day

i am father

and my father was father before me

we are form

almost unified shape

tied by familial genetics,

i am here

my father gone

bond unbroken love unbound

memory and cohesion

i have many of his traits,

i am here

and he still is

of the dust of the wind

yet at my side

that rub of ache in the forehead

as his thoughts and mine collide,

i have voice

my children hear

i make it apparent

as i heard my father,

despite long hours of work

his words i could hold

and made me smile

a child growing taught what is right

molded by nurturing consideration,

i am love

to my children

as he to me

never too old to embrace

and accept eternal bond

now without him

i will carry on

and my sons

as fathers will

Ivan Hare 18/06/27-09/01/13

so fast to nostalgia

sleep had frozen her eyes,

pulling away a draft between them

limbs stretched unwound

gleaming wounds had healed,

away from window awake,

bathroom without light

under sink cupboard with bleach and mouthwash

a bottle of bourbon in reserve,

pushed door to a crack

sat on a closed toilet seat

without that gaping void beneath his backside

sipping from the bottle,

put a hand in his shorts

rolled his penis between thumb and forefinger

damp from her

and sniffed,

faint lights illuminated heart,

head twisted sideways located tissue

shame to dab away,

as if removing her fluid,

her scent it would all end,

four years together,

she had guided him through a dry silence

concentration and love filled

earth and sky

as a solitary he would be unable to dance

and lament in lengthy boredom,

instead he stopped

stood lifting seat

dropped tissue in

pissed a long stream on continuity,

bourbon safely away,

new swarms changed names of thoughts,

into the bedroom

sprawled uneven she lay

at the window clutched the moon

and drew it back in

to be with them

a smile softer than his lips normally allow,

then settled alongside her

dVersePoets

without the wind

salt water in winter,

two fingers deep

secret to staying afloat,

vulva tides awash with secrecy

worn beneath cotton bedsheets

and that short black coat,

temptation and lust

a wanting beyond the

open expanse of ocean,

swell and topography,

knowing placement and feeling,

blind cartographer

left fingerprints and tongue

impressions,

beneath  a wayward sun,

tremors that crawl

emotion burned nerves,

and within no hollow thrum,

with tug she guided

fold and rise

waves break over rocks

map has it’s relief

with tidal surge,

shudder and compression,

the moment when the sea becomes

translucent,

and memory of this voyage

imprinted overwriting

others lesser and shorted

http://www.michelinerobinson.co.uk/

Micheline an amazing artist go and visit her website and find her on twitter @artymicheline

electric focal plane

holding her face to a crystal

formed shell,

the irony of what lay on

the foreshore was less apparent,

some wanted the reach of

mistral winds to grasp her thoughts

and send them away,

lips to kiss a transposed image,

behind open emptiness,

sky littered with white swirl gulls,

she leaned  against nothing

remaining upright

let it fall back to the sand

realizing his soul had drowned in

his body,

and there would be no counting

the years on fingers

http://lafotografiaefectistaabstracta.blogspot.co.uk/

 

1926 after D.H

we are among the ruins

and could return to life again,

it was their natural atmosphere

not daunted by either art or ideal politics

out in the open world,

she could use her sexuality to have power over him,

her orgasm and her crisis

amazing, the profound

fulfilled before they knew promise

a vibrating thrill inside the body

and the soul she could not get rid of,

succumbed to the strange male power

a well bred social anarchy

one of the curious obsolete,

she went by without looking at them,

alone he was a lost thing

whole act took place in a vacuum,

why should they last

with layers of dissolution

like geological strata,

sideways, and downwards the light fell on him

he was burningly, poignantly grateful for these

pieces of natural

as was his outcast soul,

they lit the candles in the hall

of unfinished tender flesh

an erasure poem derived from a novel that caused much controversy D H Lawrence Lady Chatterlys Lover