cumbria caravan , eastern view

Chris Lawrence Phoneography

4:30am

spelltime hour of silence

light defaces the sky

and sun confronts glass,

i am a discordant instrument

out of tune,

field and track make profiles

in the light,

rabbit flashes white tail

crows beckon with raw calls,

everyone is sleeping,

alone without cellphone coverage

or far reaching internet,

my problems an essential alphabet

to be categorized and processed

without many answers,

flushed with a sense of panic

brighter light folds about me,

besides dad gone since january

people move about my head

reaching for my attention

often stumbling,

sipping coffee

i asked them to be patient

my service was slow

attention would come

from the sleep abandoned

most awake now,

allowing the light to reach my retina

but there it stopped,

inside was still a bleak landscape

of whatever,

and i had not cleaned it up yet

 

padded diesel destination

legitimate was the legal nuance

given to his birth,

contested

shouted out

proven,

by twists of double helix,

it would be another day

to see the man

who out of ego made love

to most of the attractive women

he saw,

now there was a son

it could of been damaging,

he thought as walking through

station plaza,

he wanted it to be,

the mother

had mattered was a consequence

for all of seven months,

they had loved

with a deep assurance

that she considered to be a gesture

of forever,

he wanted to move on to the next,

now he wanted the boy and his mother,

they headed towards him

on the train

and waiting twenty minutes

was a pale shadow

of the twelve years,

he felt a sigh lengthen

and a brightness flare

Extract of Me

i have long fingers

yet cannot gouge my eyes

remove them from my face

place them blinking on sticks,

to see myself,

would i seem more different than by reflection

could i gaze past that aura of mine,

with crooked nose and empty sockets,

eyebrows that move often with emotion,

cheeks still broad enough with flesh

to make a face round,

hair never fashioned in any style,

attraction is a composite

would i say i was handsome or defined,

i had drunk from the social nectar

but did not conform to tradition,

i would not be photogenic

or adorn glossy magazines,

lips that kiss and hold the most warmth,

are the best feature,

once cracked and pale with cigarettes and ale

now are more fulfilled,

age has grey iodized me

salt tainted beard and hair,

my face would not be Che on t-shirts,

yet i am loved by one

her opinion will be different,

her eyes another perspective,

as she holds my face and kisses

i know something must be right,

not adonis  in any way,

frame too large for that,

my flesh more distorted than a Bacon nude,

i have found a home in myself

that was difficult to find,

but do not expect too many images of me

as i wish to stay away

 

 

The Horse Is Concerned

the moon conveys

its disgrace,

sun setting poised,

air fragmented still,

aroma of insolence

upon the air

in pasture symbolic

green

head bowed to water

trough,

nudging ripples to

disguise its face

a horse feels very

concerned.

http://gps.southbankcentre.co.uk/poems/1485/the_horse_is_concerned