Moments of Clouds
Quiet conversations of mist and sky
multitudinous gatherings of angry black torrent.
Such are the moments
of clouds.
Fickle moods of constant change
brooding reverie and whispy contemplation
in quiet places unknown to any
except brother wind.
Summonse of storm
where number beyond number gather
in uncaring crush of necessity
to unleash flood.
Until the moment of today
when man reached out and stole the soul
of clouds.
Never before the pain of bent will on bowed acceptance.
Writhing against trespass of intervention
they fought
but lost.
Of rain dragged in unfeeling wretchedness
at the behest of man, they now talk,
in mournful vapour.
Now they wait, fearful of consequence and aware
they are no longer the gods of self destiny.
Throwing Dictionaries At Poetry
Throwing dictionaries at poetry.
Vainly clutching handfuls of impressive words
throwing them heavenwards
in the hope of catching the breath
of a passing muse.
Watching them tumble
in spiralled anonymity
as they land on blank parchment.
The sweet taste of self delusion
that senses depth
in quietly rippled shallows.
Eyes blinded by intangible mists
see solid shape
that grows with thought of importance
until the transition lies complete.
Unwary passers-by stumble
on jagged verse.
Self doubt of comprehension
forgotten
as blind men see light in the shallow ripples.
Yet the true seer will know and with a smile
immerse his awareness
in depth beyond depth
to swim beneath the ocean waves
of poetry.
Blood Red Butterfly
Razor blade butterflies clinging to young flesh
wings of trophy colour
ridged scars of blood memory
angry red welts of recent release, burning and aflame.
Strange names hang from butterfly throats
Rebecca, Tom, Jane
Mom, Dad.
New species born of symbolic need
fertilised by personification of known substance.
Alas no more the butterfly
killed by slashing moments of blade and kissed by knife.
Resurrection butterfly, born again
sweet child of crimson pain.
As rebirth of hope cuts swathe of new tomorrow
acid realisation burns bubbling skin
we see folly, of meant well salvation.
Damned Rebecca, cruel voiced Tom or Jane.
Mom and Dad in hopeless quest of reborn child,
now rejected, become the crosses of crucifixion,
hatred beseeching red torrent.
Only blade will release, caress,
remove etched symbolistic nightmare.
In a corner, cross legged, bleeding
sits the young flesh.
The hated butterfly, sliced from well meant skin
flaps in pools of blood seeping across floorboards.
No more to dance the butterfly.
