Oh, soft red lights,
Over distant telephone lines
Arranged like treble clefs,
Reading много notes,
Lights reading these notes.
Can you read them,
Can you sing,
Can you read them to me?
Sing spryly to me?
I was an old man when
I was five,
You were widowed by six.
What is green grass,
And Dandelions worming through,
When the north wind comes,
And she sweeps
The neighbor’s leaves into our yard?
If you have anything?
I can see.
Score rises with arpeggios
Slit open my dream,
Let me see.
(“Poem for Alms” orginally came from this poem)
Clouds fly
On by
Crows cry
For free sky.
She dies,
I cry.
Can I
Ever die?
I held bubbles
In my hands
All her troubles
In my hands.
Carry her shopping bag
Open for her the door
Catch her cross when it drags
And can’t bear it any more.
Can’t cry with her
Can’t, it’s not right
But I can’t calm her
As she sobs through the night
She hangs onto my hand
Thinking I’m a man
To help understand, and
Count every grain of sand
As her sorrows
Pile on the seashore
And no tomorrow
To count any more.
And the sand is sinking
Enfolding her feet,
And the sea is drinking
Her golden streets
Her heart beats her face red
She turns away and inside
She uses bandages to cover her head
So she isn’t bled all dry.
Necrophilia the crow cries,
Perversion to his black sight
Crows and buzzards in the skies
Wings have strings closing the curtain of night.
I see her by the sea
Far from me, what am I
Trying to say, only she
Can’t hear me when I lie
Oh, my sweetest love,
Your blue tower,
Serenity far above
The waves that would cower
Trees, suffer them to lose
Their limbs and taunt
Any poetic muse,
Left withered and gaunt,
Oh my dearest love
Your blue tower
Guarded by macaws and doves
And ringed with endless flowers,
Will your cross
Crush your pure crown,
As plastic beneath cosmic loss
Or smear your gown?
My hand is caught
In the telephone line
My flesh drawn taut
About my mind,
Can my strings ever lift
These beams, not so light,
Puppetry a gift,
Or will I meander into the night?
I read
Your words to tears, silicon drown
In your seas, I read your words to the
Night, and asked it if would be light,
I read yours to the most high,
Did you ever hear him cry?
The depths of your soul,
The depths of your lost,
Your cross oh so low, Oh these
Private depths not to be plumbed,
Journeys of ever
Sorrow, wind about
Tomorrow,
Tomorrow, and the day after next,
Oh where were you left,
Bereft of an
Angel on the side of the road?
Could we meet tonight,
Beneath a streetlamp, to forget
Our sighs, thoughts and dreams,
Memories obsolete,
There is lighting in the air,
Thunder in your soul
Rain fills the skies, and
Lighting in our eyes,
When all this glory shall pass,
And the fireflies rise and alight
On Grace’s hand, fly
On Lydia’s command—
The seeds that died,
Slowly grow, and grow till we
Are covered in living rows.
Hello, glad to make my appearance at last. This is reminiscent of the masque ball, but I’m so late I’ve arrived as myself, with my real companion as herself. We each drew ourselves, and I put the two together. I think hers looks much more like her than mine does of me, I wish she drew more often.
I’m looking forward to some brave real-life drawing, which I hardly ever do. I’d like to be your occaisonal correspondent from London, and when I feel more like the countryside, then I can head out to Kent and correspond from there instead. Bromley where we live is boringly suburban, but counts as both London and Kent. People who have lived nearby include the painter Samuel Palmer, H.G.Wells, and Enid Blyton – and apparently William Blake had a vision of angels on Peckham Rye, but I wouldn’t want to go there!
Thankyou for the warm welcome!
Yes, it’s cheap to stuff a subject’s hand into his pocket because you can’t draw hands, but this picture has a sense of “solid whimsy” that I like to see in artwork, so I decided to post it. (Is it alright to admit that I like to like to look at my drawings?)
What kind of things do you like to see in drawings, paintings, etc.?
