lamp and silence

you can always find a helper
to dig your own grave,
the logical old mind
that grasps
within the brain
images thick as chocolate,
and arguing heart
will find a place to bury
but not here,
a sky blue vast
ocean of the above
crossed by vents
of expelled air,
it was as if the doctor
pissed in his own specimen pot
a give of gold warmth
to be dipped by another
to let you live by extension,
no more searching,
spade would cut a wound
hole expanding,
an expression of what was vast
keep it to yourself
as earth opens
and you become
what once would of been
a miner

     

Concrete Cadence

step off the train of thought

instant rain brushed eyelids

memories liquefied by time

cold clinging to fabric

the ride was over,

and without wings

bought with an angels gentleness

which he did not possess

flight too out of the question,

light lifted clouds on

bright shield shoulders

the past puddled about feet,

feet that avoided snare

of grasping brambles

that emerge through concrete

dust rose choking,

run the only option

flesh scraped into sores

to be picked later,

blue filled air

no unbalance steady pace

dropping back to a walk

as it became difficult

air thickened,

the one first deserves

to be blessed,

he so slow fell

to knees exhausted,

tender eyes closed

beneath folds of elliptic flesh,

found in his heart

the place he should of been

engulfed by gasps

of what had been prepared

 

Journeyman

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

 

Journeyman

travel not far from my side

alone you will never be,

a dream connects

heart will talk,

deep valleys will not contain

mists draw across

by fingertip i will find,

life a container

a shell that holds

essence and essential you,

written on memory

indelible unsmudged

now slipped

will not escape my grasp

i feel you

as on new travels

across tides

that will wash my cheeks,

will see you

as a new shadow at my side

never forgotten

for my father Ivan Hare son of Wilfred Hare and Nellie Cubbin a fantastic father and friend loved and missed

Waiting In Line

frosted lens one secret eye,

it’s time almost gone,

other vibrant blue watery,

she waited to be served

packaged meals enough for

a few days,

tremors with age

cellular collapse,

life’s abrupt stoop to spine,

coat drawn snug,

cold reaches more easily

through mottled paper,

her turn,

trolley a support to feet

more unsteady than an infant,

red leather handbag

leather fashion for forty years

cracked and glazed,

pleased to talk to the assistant

juddering conversation,

sprawled out topics of conversation

no linear trail,

topics of weather,

her husband passed twenty years,

lack of pension,

always broke,

children dispersed seed unconnected

and when she was younger

flew planes in the Pacific

a job few knew of,

no government medal,

yet she offered her life

as she did now to survival,

gnarled arthritic hands

struggled with notes and coins

tomorrow a fragile

premise

 

Clay Path

had he not looked up

after checking the time,

would not be aware

of clay tiles and irregular

ridges leading to a spire,

framed lowlit sky

no moon,

he waited as if for inspiration,

maybe too much beer,

wishing to go up,

scramble on moss covered surfaces,

lifting each tile,

looking for messages imprinted

underneath,

answers to his many questions,

an unsteady rock on feet

inhaling a cool sharpness,

it would wait,

no ladder or drainpipe available,

he thought of the spire

and building behind

and wondered if he could

get there.

 

copyright Margaret Bednar

http://margaretbednar365.blogspot.co.uk/  http://withrealtoads.blogspot.co.uk/2012/09/sunday-challenge-around-world.html IGWRT prompt