poetrytownsville

You hold the holocaust in your hand,
sing mountains
remove,
but they remain,
defiant,
defiled.

You rap on gentile heart,

boast a crucifix
uncrossed.

In rags and tatters
you moan
of salvation sought through word.

Wander through image,
mesmerised
by light and lack of hair.

Struggle to reach,
but never tire
or try.

Buy/borrow/steal
an Amen
as though it were
a brand,
a tag,
an ending,
PRETENDING.

Subtle as icy wind
you winnow images,
icons from charf,
display like trophies,
PRIZES DUE.

Never wanting to steal
nor stash
but needing too.
so doing.

Such are the songs unsung.

160415

Nameless.

I ‘owl at the moon,

blood red, baked

in a desert sky.

I bay at daybreak

wince at light,

no saviour of mine,

night not my foe.

No desertion here:

dark to light,

lost to found,

free to fettered.

I ’owl at the moon,

long lost to lust

of sunshine’s blight.

You feed the birds
in your cage.
They fly free,
away.

You stay.

Who says?

Always followed by a question mark

or two.

‘Who says,’ puts you in your place,

or starts to.

Challenges your right to say

unequivocally.

‘Who says,’ says:

‘You don’t say.’

Even though you did.

There’s John Lennon sunglasses
looking up at me
from marble top table.
Through years,
through worlds.

There’s me looking down
at John Lennon sunglasses,
asking for a question
to give intelligence
to an omission.

Janis,

Your face says more pain

than a case of Jack Daniels.

XOX

How much suchness takes us?
Murmuring,
‘Come along, come along.’

Echoes of shadows …
Signs.

How much beckoning still
calls?

Belief beckons,
We wait …
go
or neither.