When all the clocks tick toxic
When all the stars are magic
When all the clouds disappear from above
There is only one thing it can be –
Poetry?
On feeling a story
The imagination of the senses: the sight,
the smell, the touch – oh, the touch –
the deep deep stirring words bring.
On World Poetry Day she said
Don’t like poetry. Don’t like poems.
She said.
I like words.
She said.
Your words. Not poems.
She said.
I did.
The wood you stand on
The wood you stand on, washed up flotsam on the stones,
once held my father’s weight above the waves;
the rusted bolt you kick with a thoughtful frown
kept closed the press which held his family maps.
It will be a found feature in your off-white apartment,
a reminder of the sea to bring the old outdoors inside.
Treat it kindly, with due respect.
It held safe their lives until that day
and now outlives them.
Night wish
May dreams’ slow flight light the golden way to morning
The darkness hides
The darkness hides the miles; they’re gone.
A whispered word
and a wish tied together fly –
tomorrow spring birds will sing.
My shadow is my closest friend
My shadow is my closest friend;
she understands me.
In the darkness of the darkest night
I light a candle to see her close again.
Living with a poet
The nets on the quayside are not the wiles with which I charmed you. They’re nets. They’re not the fisherfolk’s dreamcatchers that took our ambition. They’re nets.
The dinghy bobbing on the incoming tide is not your spirit that soared when you first saw me at the party. It’s a boat. It’s not our hopes and dreams before the love tide turned. It’s a boat.
The gulls that swoop down on the flecks of foam are not poembirds. They’re gulls. They are not lyric snatchers from the frothing deep. They’re gulls.
My heart is not – my heart is not a cartoonish pink, arrow-pierced. It’s my heart. It’s not, I’m afraid, any words that you may say. It’s my heart. And yes, it’s broken, but it will mend.
Don’t gently touch my hair
Don’t gently touch my hair while I am sleeping. Please don’t blow sweet kisses on the hairline of my neck. You don’t sleep here any more now, do you? No. I feel the draught from the summer-open window. Please don’t breathe the words I cannot hear.
New Year
New, new, new.
Dreams are new and memories.
Time flew through the year
and here is another.
A time for renewal
like no other before
but more days should be so.
Chances we need to make and share.
New, new and not so new.
Do. Or don’t do.
Now your world is quiet or should be.
Slow down how time flew.
simonsalento 