Pilgrims
shapeless forms on shifting sands,
a walk without an end in sight.
abandon our shoes in the ocean,
pursue our wanderings into tomorrow.
wish away our whole life on a maybe,
dig deep inside to find the thing to live for.
Sunday, 2 February 2025
A Poem a Day (708): Pilgrims
A Poem a Day (707): Flames
Flames
as in
water,
unwritten.
Unsaid.
Fire curls
the edges of wrath,
flames without
a phoenix.
a drawbridge
with no end.
This path divides
and redivides
into a soar
of mountains.
And then it’s
gone.
Aces high,
delusion low.
Fire
breathes a lion’s soul.
blown on languorous
breeze,
for there
is movement.
Otherwise,
all is stasis,
all is illusion.
Just coal.
Saturday, 1 February 2025
A Poem a Day (706): Moths
Moths
lair of the moth,
quiet watches the moon rise,
the shift in the cosmos,
a shaking of time.
this eaten-out horizon,
a drifting sand expanse untrod.
We are but blighted stars,
torn strips of gravity.
he watches the spaces
betwixt knowing and exempt,
as though all the light is cried out
and the ocean churns to drown.
A Poem a Day (705): Journeying
Journeying
to bark to stone to living water,
this glistening, a rapture to spring,
an endeavour to be more, not less,
to flower, aspire, to be.
to air, speaks a language only
the river knows, and our feet sink
into mossy roots, a juncture read,
seek to walk the breath of nature.
without the weight of ourselves,
to travel light in pursuit of this missing part.
We measure each footprint we make
lest we leave too deep a mark.
unbridled, leaves shielding us from glare.
A Poem a Day (704): The machine
The machine
it cannot be gathered
or rejoined, extinguished
sound. The pathway, once clear,
eats noise, the teeth of the machine,
a Singer with no tune.
shunted cloth, pushed forth at pace.
But the link is gone.
a chasm without light. It pulls
and you feel it sometimes. But cloth,
it cannot feel, they say. You can’t feel
what you never had.
A Poem a Day (703): Water, fire, air
Water, fire, air
the sense of something
idealised, unrealised, tragic.
Reason is, as was,
as is the presence of absence.
It bows in blessing to the moon.
let slide, ourselves, on broken snow,
for we are how we never were,
upside, key side, the fallen out,
belief suspends. A yearning box.
Fire extinguishes. Air betrays.
of the thing, pulled out in opposites,
never warned, and ever lost we sleep
in knowing nothing is as meant to be.
But we are human. Undesigned.
A Poem a Day (702): Unbound clay
Unbound clay
a looking glass of blended stone,
the disappearance of sorrow,
a vanishing act you cannot borrow.
This path is twisted, so let it be,
cross the seldom bridge at your leisure
so you may finally see the distancing,
Call forth an image of the life you want
and do not despair in a broken box.
Pure water flows. It does not stick.
Stand up against the wall and be counted
even if the brick is all you can touch.
Scorched, ache in the draft of being seen.
We feel the breath in setting things free.
Cast a line across the shore and seek shine,
deepset in the emotions you need to release.
we can only grasp it, be still in wonder,
for we are sculpture, moulded by hand,
dreamers in a world we do not seek to own.
A Poem a Day (701): Bended boughs
Bended boughs
blood-scarlet tape
and starlight hands,
we wrestle darkness
into sunk oblivion,
tread streams of
light to the next world.
adorned in moss,
girdled in stripped bark,
sips morning dew
from a cup of leaves.
Nothing lives that
she might dread in nature;
one to be handed
down in scoops of words.
Through the shape
of air she draws a picture,
dreamt of the one
she would adore if known.
hair drenched, she
stands taller than the boughs,
waits for an arc of
vibrant colour to paint itself
in this blued-out,
carved-up, blinded sky.
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