sticky beaked crow
raucous over winter berries,
as i ran on frosted ground
grass unlikely to bend
silvered instead of green,
clouds would shake
their snow soon
blanketing and forming
a soft landscape for me
in snow,
i was protected
the chill and damp
reddened eyes and nose,
sticky beaked crow
a shadow on the ground
lengthening under a low sun,
my shadow would be longer
one day,
for now i was content
to lay upon my back
feeling spread of arms and legs
as i be came an angel
dVersePoets
when a thought becomes a fraction
divided into memory
and everyday fatigue
it settles not happy to remain
will divide again
into dreams and realization
long cerebral passageways
cluttered with electric snapshots
of a life lived long,
thinking was a process
started in the morning
after rinsing mouth and bathing
combed and prepared
opened the mind
some fractions found division harder
and became elongated spools
of tension and agitation
hands that tremor
ever so slightly
as sipping a glass of lemonade,
beneath this mass of
seething activity
normal had almost resumed
old fractions worked
looking at a photo album
your son found in the loft
other debris of a life in one place
gathered and divided
and will be when your
gone
landscape seen by standing eye
on wind stripped rooftops edge,
answers pilgrims of nausea
fall as if from the depths of the sky,
horizon alone with forest
sun faced green silk and gold,
tracks of those who journey in faith
into the still of wooded glade,
within voices imagined
brambles pulled by enraged fingers
mess and tangle hide
that place used as a remote hope,
he should be there
pale faced
emotions a fountains stream
pleasure would not be found
with slackened vines,
this horizon embraced him
pulled into its complex afternoon
where time lie down
petal seconds fall,
chaos is not for choosing
sleep will not be heeded
as these files of thought
are put away,
staunched by class,
those in power jailers to tomorrow,
gas would fill indecent blue
and many more would fall,
for the sake
of secrets of kings
wordle
letterman taught liberal arts
bukowski master of the open portal
that caught flies and dirty blondes ,
there where no country estates
or manicured ladies in crinolene,
too much hubbub
and relentless spiral of those
who live in such an octopus town,
that solar flares light the street
and guide those whose frail stories
stumble over awkward words
and metaphor,
master of bliss
with shimmering teeth
and boiling stench caught on
warmer breeze
vigilant for kisses and erotic
composure,
severed happiness from tears
and kept each separate,
behind the doors of our octopus
town the withered languish
robbed of enchanted loins
and their tears now crystallized
as rings for deaths fingers,
clotted souls clogged
as choked diaphragms coughed and
hacked sluices of phlegm,
the doors opened for a moment each day
quick enough for a shadow to be
flung out,
madness was a bomb on every street corner,
diffused as she appeared,
her deceit to entice
and enchant,
womb of silken flotsam
carried nothing hopeful,
yet her heart once orphaned
brought a rising sun
that closed the portal
to bukowski’s dismay
letterman fell aside victim
to iron skies and sanities rent,
heal deep she called
finding it broken
and lambs put together the pieces
with a well chewed glue
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
clever blue eyed clock
measuring the width of harm
in ratchet clicks so solemn ,
childhood had finished
you saw to that
overtook my heart with years
as firm shrouding
growing up was a facility
in the forest where only some
belonged,
and i did not want to go there
it was a sentence
a finish
even ultimatum
to those near expiry date
flesh baggage creased and folded
eyes as dim bulbs,
i was the one on the bicycle
wishing to go past
shouting at the top of my voice
yet something broke the wheels
and i was left at the path
sat crosslegged wondering,
one woman with a cart lopsided
and one eyed horse offered me a lift
and i refused despite
silky touch of mane
as horse nuzzled my hand,
i was broken not forgotten
resisting time as an armed guerilla,
i would fight
and there would be casualties
velvetmedia 