Lost turmoil-night, where twisted hawsers stretch
rough-rocked anchorage of half-wakefulness,
and slack they knot up back to wrack in stress
inflame delirium, rage the wretch: -
"It's not enough to deface doors of time
but splinter through to colonize the moons,
sup with our demons, buy-in longer spoons*-
the way to assonance through dearth of rhyme.
All trauma must boom less, all quiet time more
be magnified, wired, till those Whos be heard,
ornery haints in wheezing lulls of word
more than can thump the tubs or quake a floor."
It's true, a mote may loom, a mouse can roar;
and though sleep sweets to soothe, green ills wrench raw.
.......................
*The old saying goes - 'you need a long spoon to sup with the devil'.
Toasting my back on a hot radiator now ;) Not the only bad night had. Someone's soaking in the bath upstairs :)
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Wintering
PoesíaIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
