Silence and Spillage, a poem

A Libation ... A Toast

To

This silence that has settled

Upon him like dust ...

To

This silence that has corroded

The skin of him like rust ...

This silence isn’t praying,

Though the hands mimic

A slow applause, or the paying

Out of rope –

Enough to hang himself –

A trick, a gimmick,

A sawing in half,

A laugh a minute,

A grope in the dark.

Mind the gap.

His voice a slur,

As he draws on a cigarette,

Sips a wine turned sour.

It’s a question begged

Of the lees, the dregs,

Not formed, not spoken yet;

He has his own way of betraying

What is bait in a trap.

This silence isn’t praying;

The hands don’t grasp or flap.

He takes another gulp, another drag.

The smoke from his mouth

Is kissed heavenward, a moue,

A whisper scented half grape, half-truth

That drifts like mist, misheard

Amongst the cavilling and gainsaying

Of the delusions he has peopled.

This silence isn’t praying,

Though the hands are steepled,

Though the hands are a crucible for tears.

This silence isn’t praying;

There’s nothing left worth saying:

The hands cup an empty glass.

Cheers ...

Borrowed Light

Borrowed light

It’ll be dark soon and time to go.

Could you pass the dice,

I’d like another throw?

Oh, I understand.  Club rules:

Just the once, never twice.

Yes, you’ve got to be kind to be cruel.

Well, a present, long in the unwrapping

And the children like animals,

Not knowing then warping,

Bending with the truth of it;

The knowledge of an unsteady sentinel

Watching over an illness that is implicit,

With happiness a symptom that reckons a cost:

All too brief a candle,

All too much found then lost,

But a gift all the same;

One we bestow, simply, as a mantle

For the igniting and sheltering of our flame;

As if the heat carried a living debt,

Paid tomorrow so to honour us;

For what shines is a currency yet.

The moon has risen, the darkness at its back -

Its mountains shadows, its deserts dust,

With somewhere on its conquered land a flag.

And the moon, oh why is it so cold, so bright?

Such a false god robed in borrowed light.

Dark Atlas, poem

Dark Atlas

A map’s been nailed to the four corners of a round table.

There’s a key; there’s a scale; there are symbols:

Figures in a landscape, a path to follow;

Birds taking flight: an eagle, a swallow.

There is a route marked in red -

A river like an artery that has bled

Over mountain and forest to the ocean

Of our unknowing: a feeling, a prehension.

And somewhere in the dark atlas of the mind

Is the conceit in the relief of a journey that is signed.

A Free Lunch? A poem on faith

The Free Lunch (service included)

The waitress brings him soup;

The Chef’s special, written up

Sans serif, no curlicues, no loops.

He bends over his bowl,

Scoops up a morsel of gruel,

And something dark and animal;

Dipping his spoon, dipping

His head, blowing and sipping,

Tasting and chewing spoonfuls

Of gristly meat that stick in his teeth.

Chewing; it could be the beef,

Rather hopeful of a lamb,

Young and tender,

Melting in the mouth,

In the palm of his hand.

Slurping a greasy treat,

Burping, he bends his head,

As if saying grace, stares

Into the space that offers

Instead … 

She places a plate of bread

Upon the table, sliced knife thin;

A coin upon his tongue -

The pain a song, a hymn -

A paper cut, he winces;

And she brings a glass of wine,

The light upon it slick, sanguine.

He licks his lips, and sips, sups,

Convinced;

Feels it in his gullet.

Pats his pocket for his wallet.

He coughs, he’ll cough up.

He will pay the bill and leave –                                                                                    

Erasing the stains upon his sleeve – a tip.

He could have chosen another menu,

Lived and dined at another venue,

Slipped into that other life … repeat.

The waitress hovers, canted over,

As he wavers over something sweet;

Listening, disposes, just, like a mother,

Like a wife, immaculate; she advises.

She takes his order for dessert,

Nodding her responses,

Ticking off chapter and verse.

He’ll get what he deserves –

Just - the ugly sister’s foot,

And it will fit, at a push, with a nod

And a wink; and what’s left on his plate

She’ll scrape into the sink.

She’ll clear the table and wipe the slate.

Placate.

He’ll have the cake … and eat it.

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