Trace the lines of our life
to the brink of our death.
look at the hoists and pulleys –
the pendulum of night and day –
birth of dawn, death of dusk –
where the grand cockerel will never meet the night-time gale.
Nocturne to day, sojourn to night –
pass by and bye to ask –
do the globes meet two or relay the race for day?
They know their place in no worry and history
for history is their adhesive – to say to stay never to move.
To the indulgent effortlessness of hanging
give praise, whilst
to heave up from heavy slumber –
i find no solace, after all,
it’s an eternal chase.
Vein evolves to simulate
nature’s curve and screw.
Nectar swells inside the muggy bud
and overflows in emulation
of the dewy bloom,
pegged and hung.
Wrapped, snug, sapping and juicy –
made succulent for none to see.
To devour would be an insult, but,
fate was always cruel to the brittle ones –
all broken, torn, two.
No – Gemini’s dual gaze, that’s nicer.
History will be kinder though,
will rise and give it teeth,
to chew and show –
earth is the matrix and
all excess in pomp
is the glut of pattern.
Like old poppa clock –
a surplus idea, made to confuse,
to forget the grand gift of
a garden’s green globes.
So. As rude rhymes
tickle me pink,
what do you think?
The purple face of the moon-tide truce,
overwrought and out of time,
heaven-bent on the earth’s distant bow.
Sun-streams pluck heart-strings
then turn to dust
In the dim light of this
I can read sense,
as all and every