Sensed

moth-to-a-flame

(source)

Recognised by footfall on the stairway
A sneeze, a cough, a laugh, all known so well
Out of sight and yet still seen in mind’s eye
Who is there, the sounds alone may tell

Identified at distance by an outline
A shape, a shrug, a slouch, a gait, or more
Virtually unseen and yet acknowledged
As one encountered often times before

Scent upon the wind that clings in mem’ries
A perfume, fragrant grass, tanged forest spice
Faint souvenirs long gone and yet they linger
Bouquets recalled, recaptured, that entice

 A citrus thought reclining in a heatwave
Taste buds triggered, juiced by orange skin
A salivated riposte to stored mind grove
Yet dimpled drouth is merely quenched within

A blindfold quest exploring tactile secrets
Silk, satin, fur, evocative to touch
Discovery in tangible and tested
Speculated thrill in knowing such

A jolt from sleep, a voice within a dreamscape
A shrilling phone that stimulates unease
Clouded signs and signals looped in memos
Disquietude in gut that’s unappeased

A fiery flame, a finger, the temptation
What is known and what’s been felt or learned
A myriad of means and useful methods
Why then, with common sense, are hands still burned

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PVC’d

Take one piece of plastic, just one fragment,

Stretch it so it’s longer, wider, thin,

Saran-wrap the life that you are leading,

Protected from invaders, nought let in.

Cling it onto self and tightly bind you,

Around, around, around, with overlaps,

Nothing from the outside will now taint you,

Filmed against all troubles and mishaps.

No seepage, spillage, no contamination,

Insulated from all life, preserved so much,

Now ask yourself if breathing is an option,

Covered head to toe, devoid of touch.

Feel it where it films in all its winding,

Around, around, around, to laminate,

Unhearing ears, unseeing eyes, unbreathing,

Distorting face and features, plastic fate.

Gasps ungasped, inhale, inhale, it’s useless,

Pants unpanted, panic rising fast,

Underwater world of drowning mastic,

Soldered, sealed by self, in moulded cast.

Uncommon bonds, hermetic, manufactured,

Around, around, around, to isolate,

Boxed up when all breathing has abated,

Bubble-wrapped in melted pellets, lie and wait.

Pallets ready, stacked outside the warehouse,

Conveyor-belted parcels, undiseased,

Thrown aboard for final distribution,

PVC’d, protected, but deceased.

Wide Shut For Sixth

Out of that darkness, that pitch of oppression,

Out of that blackness, that void,

Out of that dank trap of timeless cessation,

Fluttered wings fully deployed.

Flapped they with fury till furies they fled,

Eons of hostile subverted,

Out of the dungeon where demons have bled,

Their intentions subtly diverted.

Out of the abyss the albatross flew,

Chains still swinging from claws,

Stronger the wings that have practised harnessed

Though aerial given to pause.

Out from down under, down deep but not out,

Out from Cerberus’ grasp,

Felt in the darkness, eyes rested shut,

Earthbound by blindfolded task.

Up through the channels, tunnels truncated,

Veering, uninjured as such,

Instinctively seeing, hearing the light

Guided by sensory touch.

There to the high plains, a leap with all faith,

Rattling links still attached,

Power encompassed in breadth of the stretch,

Night, by flight, fully matched.

Sometimes in darkness, especially in pitch,

Only blind sense will suffice,

Failing the five, depend on the other,

Wide shut for eye of sixth sight.

 

I had written the first eight lines of this yesterday just based on ‘out of’ then left it to brew. In comments with Paul I happened to mention that I close my eyes to see better in the dark, which is true. I don’t really know why I do it but it feels more natural to sense my way through darkness than it does to try to see. The rest was born from Paul commenting, by return, that it sounded like a life credo. Maybe it is. 🙂

Logophile

I’ve touched those words before now,

They reached and asked me to,

Tongued with tenderness their tone,

Words command of you,

Turned the pages where they live,

Leafed and loved them too,

When joy they’ve given, I give back,

The least that I can do.

 

Kissed some pages, slept with them,

They’ve warmed me when I’m cold,

Comforted or made me cross,

Even made me bold,

Bent o’er backwards when they’ve asked,

Given birth when told,

Filled in blanks and filled the blank,

A love that can’t grow old.

 

Books I’ve fingered stand the test,

Some I must let go,

A library that needs thinned down,

Released to let them sow,

Off to others, bid adieu,

True loves I can’t let go,

Logophiles know what I mean,

Words desire it so.

How Be It Dream

If, in inner eye

of languid 

somnolence

is felt

is seen

a million

multicoloured prisms

streaming on the beam

convergent

on pin-pointed purpose

to bestow

receive

paralysis

two-spirit gendered

ancient deity

suffusing and infusing

seeking soul surrender

in semi-conscious

state of sensuality

caressed and kissed

by ported rays

on zephyr’d fingertips

aroused from drenching

sun-blessed sleep

if

as felt

as seen

how be it dream

Simply Known

Some things are clearer in darkness,

Sight abides,

Some touch is more tender with absence,

Felt inside,

Some sounds are louder in silence,

Heard within,

Some tastes always linger in memory,

Salt of skin,

Some senses respond minus stimuli,

Simply known,

Some love needs nothing to guide it,

Still shown.

Some senses are stolen in time’s stakes,

Such a sin,

Some, though, are never forgotten,

Win, win.

 

Where Angels Weep

Is it better to be absent when you lie upon a bed,

Presence close beside you, somewhere else inside your head,

Turning all the buttons in the channels of your brain,

Is it better to be all alone when absence causes pain.

Is it better to be silent when walking on the street,

Negating conversations with the lonely that you meet,

Turning face away from fears, frantic running fast,

Is it better to be silent when lonely people pass.

Is it better to be buoyant when spirit urges fall,

To try for more resilience when backed against life’s wall,

Pretending to the lonely heart that silent power wins,

Is it better to be buoyant while you flail to sink or swim.

Is it better to believe in dreams than curse the darkest clouds,

Surpassing all tempestuous with images around,

Fleeing to the hinterlands where dreamers send their prayers,

Is it better to believe in dreams than cry down oaths on never theres.

Is it better to be born a fool that never makes a plan,

Wisdom in the let it be’s instead of better than’s,

Painting pictures of their own while others purchase theirs,

Is it better to be born a fool and peddle varied wares.

Is it better to be born deaf, blind, all senses out of reach,

No touch, no taste, no scents, no sixth, distant from life, speech

Indifferent, heart of stone, oblivious to all,

Is it better to be born senseless than to feel the pain withal.

Is it better to suppress the self when angels beg their need

Though silent on a lonely cloud where usher’d tears fall, bleed,

Dripped upon the bed space where the absent hear, don’t fail,

Is it better to suppress the self when angels weep and wail.

 

Never Quite Forgotten

Never quite forgotten,

loving mem’ries,

Drift and sift in shadow’d

halls of mind,

Replaying as the tunes

of ancient hist’ry,

Recaptured round

the campfires left behind,

Smok’d in peat,

and perfum’d with the past tense,

Indelible on senses,

ink’d in blood,

Never quite forgotten,

treasur’d always,

Give and take, remembered consolation,

Never quite forgotten gifts of love.

Acclimatising

Blame not

the cast of shadows

on corners closed to light,

But flame the torch,

sconced,

awaiting willing hand.

Trip not,

in hesitation,

cursing blunderous steps,

But feel cracked pores, crevassed pointing,

thirsting

for faith touch.

Idle not

in disharmony’s speculation.

Rather, murmur

faint remembrances

Till refrain

makes glorious your voice.

Fear not

the underground passages

dependent on your darkness for existence.

Rather, shelter there,

acclimating

eyes to gloom’s recognisance of faint shafts.