skating

The ice binds the boats
the feet strokes shave away
the first tromps in the new surface
claimed by curious white-billed birds
that sit now idly like dark ceramic vessels
in nooks of lapping water under the warm bridge

the gliding prime gather
freed by flailing arms
in the leisure of the canal
the handing out of
of gluhwein and bottles
in this public intimacy
from warmth of common past
makeshift cafes spread on frozen floors
the tender on shift smoking staring
for hours minding
the nods of bright eyes
from the white of the snow

the merry fall to catch
mittens for safety and slip
into the harmless joy

the long shadow of the Westerkerk
marks the short recess
heeded by the folk

The bamboo is a walking plant
trudging along the mud banks
of the gyrating river

Below the crows, trapped trees
transportive windows
the soft yellow gridsheet
outlining populace and place
past befuddled pipeworks
and the lacery of tree root
How far below
the stream winds
and whimpers...
nascent water
ancient water.
I've recovered.

Pastel charm of porches stiffening
and always the sun belated
What can I hear ?!
Trickles I mind
on predetermined, delusional walks
that neighbors are non affable
tensions strung from stride to step
between street medallions
from the war
marked property of seldom seen and null
ACCESS
Standing above the iron cake
peering into the fingerholes of this clangerous instrument
the stream pours like a drum

On Abell above; heralding
crows for the coming of night
fly like a wave of soot in blue sky
or in sea, like heavy particulate metal
when stirred by the pull
of the drudging tide

The human sigh, cry for half
hopes that skip and miss, floating matters
we accompany and nod like birds
low hovering, the anxious crows make
for the passing of the day.
Between crow calls and cares
eastern words that compete with civic sirens
What might we hear?

On crested walks and spry step
the twigs tickle underfoot
the wind tossing the laughter
of youths into the trembling leaves
both are green from drink
resolved in the cellars of the ground
the wind briskly blowing through
like travelers in the city
knowing not the Abell stream
How far below the stream.

Winding water snake
translucent movement
gliding murky waters
aside the upside down pier towers

water ridges color trespass
no form no line

is water vapid grid silk

Time expanse
superfluous thought
recalled novel, fact
circling conversation
cycling, rotating

movement from one yellow orange room lighted with asphyxiated gas
step off into blue grey

recalling words and colors
echoes and mist

what is creative cycle?

production is mired
mis en place
the screech of a red parrot
whose gut is filled with bile
disrupts the aroma and buoyancy of a fine day
the creature is shut in
and preens feathers
with acidic tongue

Thursday
The town's been mumbling about the sleet weather so much you'd think winter would last 365 days this year. The day after that Wednesday is a mild melancholy morning. It started with the dew of rain, a swift sprinkle to sweetly bless the soft morning.
The seagulls bluntly cutting into the gray haze circling the quarry crying above the voices of the stead quail. The call of the misfit birds is awkward and roughening without the company of the seas torrent, there was no barrage of white crests, salt whipping on pearl and rock, volatile and masterful. The soaring gulls like bleak pigeons in a coal sky. Somewhere in the yellow thicket a bird whoops repeatedly like the lashing of a bull whip. Sprawling along the length of the water a green nested pier opens access to the nature scene. Men gather in dusty ball caps, rough jeans their leathery hands toting rods and tackle. Their voices low but barking, excited by the commune of nature. A small group collects around a silver choking fish. The other men shift on the space of the deck shoving rough hands in worn collapsed coat pockets. The great gulls are gone. They had coated their feathers in the cool gray and shirted their underbellies in wet waiting water, for a moment, clustered and routinely dunked under the sky and beckoned by some invisible whispering wind, set off one by one. The men smother their cigarettes and wipe their hands partly from the blood of the fish and they too set off from the breach of the land.

Where do we operate in the unknown

The bleak white cathedral
glimmers in the dark gloom
headstones gleam
sleeting stone in
rows wade in the warmth
of swallowed souls

Where to suffer
bleak life
mired in pain
morbid mysticism

silent stretching
wind creaks
no longer swaying
limber earth

forlorn, haggard
man trembles
to hold nimbly his heart
when speared by
the strangle of silence

word flow
spilt, spit up
like warm milk

wiped washed
by the surreal sea
sun bath

thoughts are visions
crowded cluttering
but so monochrome

sound grips
prodding poking
aggravated air

hard physics
inconsequential
running tare

Last night upon exit, the shadow men were shouting orders. Breaking through the winter bone of the earth with light fractures and steel utility.


I awoke with a sand scraped face, grit in palms, great stink of fear.

writing is merely
squinting
fingers crossed
head cocked
cuttings like red tape
threaded notebook scrap
bread for pudding

The is a woman lingering in the atrium.

Light exclusively for smoking
jaded brand of delirium
wisps of Grey consuming
retreating into the devouring
escape upwards
gone

end of evening
is obscene
mind burning
on low deep aggression
numb
while the body is defenseless
warm
eyes obsessed by shape and forms
roughened

all dreams are implicitly shoved
aside
and my voice is incoherent
rambling to a mirror
echoes in a dark dismal tunnel

all sweet fond desires
are wrought by the days
deliveries
and smiles are disguise
for the blank stare

Blue man
grey paper cotton
sweaty collared shirt
Red lady
sleek on time
high walking

My funny resting
place is in
my car
and I sleep
but I dream
of work
and wake with
the stir of lateness
somehow it wasn't
done (not alone)

What of the world
under covers
when the curtain of our
eyes conceal the stage
in the purple blue
black of the dark
infantile again
floating mysterious
womb of dream
pitching seas edge
while the giant cold contenders
buckle with weight
and heave load
and bellow foghorn
latecoming
when waking the festering mind
the stretch of
stark grey and
shifting souls
lost drawn
whose passions
have seized
long bleached
worry worn
with pits of eyes
that reflect nothing
caverns of solitude
which no exit
or entrance is hoped for
the mass costumed
in rust, stiff cloth
many in veil of black
ladies, chin to their breast
enrobed in fading silk
like wilting petals
and vitality is questionable
men, whose shoulders drop
and hands hang to
no base
scrape tough feet
and step with no
pride
the children of these
sensing the strife
whimper and squeeze
tight their eyes
sing unwrit song
and fidget with whats found
consider all imaginings
to escape the plough

all inaction
are thoughts displaced
attraction leaning
for designs fruition

I yearn for
consuming ocean sea
in pitch roaring
day's end
hurling towering waves
upon slow sinking earth
that slides beneath my
soles, between parting
fingers
moving me

In the dark gaping night
I am absorbed
in company of silent parts
broken shells
precious stones
my deep course
hair entangled with brine
locks of sea harvested
to dry
within my breast
the low rolling hum
whispering chant of
the fluid body
in the great space of
the night,
a titan in the void

Once, to stay again a steady thrumming in one's mind
peace with the shortness of the world,
choice of wanting eden or being content with the grey

love, what stream that appears to flow to an ocean
but breaks upon grey stone and the brown earth

love for two who see with blinds
piercing light that blankets all
feels warm, no known designs

what best position
to be green, growing, sprawling vine

or better to lay veins exposed, broad leaf
strewn

how does light play?