A thousand dreams of blue

In a thousand dreams of blue,
over and over,
strummed by sandwiched sea and sky,
gull-clear and even-tempered
valves of light announce a melody.
Everything under-wing, this worship
of waves, whose art
is never letting go.
And somewhere, sometime
astir between despair and hope
plucks out the firmament
into a dazzling array
away from its short monochrome,
you announce yourself
the very definition of azure.

Scattered Thoughts (22 January)

Just fill the page with worded thoughts
Let them scatter, dandruff-wild or
Dandelion dust up-whipped in nature’s sigh.
Make no sudden move or they might startle
And take flight, cautious pigeons
Abandoning their inch-patient search
Among the weeds and wispy grasses.
Trap sounds in ink, blue and black,
Making waves into cursive font:
Here a short dialogue between two dogs, unseen,
There a child wails and shouts.
You wonder whether you should intervene,
Which would mean leaving this page
Where your words might be better heard.
Then you recall these noises come
From other days, earlier nights
Having bitten their way into memory.
From arrival to departure with rapid pace
An agonising evaporation of scenes refuses
To condense as droplets in any case.
Pressing on might lead to harder thoughts,
To questions existential and unanswerable;
For now the weight is slowly raised,
The anchor begins to rewind itself.
Still it strikes you:
They had first to lift the guillotine’s blade
Aloft
To perform its kitchen magic.

It was just (20 October)

“Can you believe the stuff we said about her?”

Do we regret that no composer
will stoop to set these
adolescent afternoons to song and
score these turgid lives?

Suburban echoes voiced
in ten thousand variations
fill these listless days
lacking opera’s consequence.

Lightly seasoned by these few
clicking notes but more by
beats, stops and breaths that
bend them towards boredom’s offspring.

They trill the line, so unaware:
tragedy, comedy?

“Well I feel bad now.”