The river

The ring of water grew slowly; washing,
in circling, funnelled, constancy,
against the earth on which she sat. The
floods had come, both literal and symbolic,

watering the dry, hard ground of psyche and
of  soil. It was, they whispered, just
a stage that she was going through, or was
that growing through? In the silence,

on the edge of fallowed fields of broken
grain, she could almost imagine that
the land would be swallowed by that suck
of snaking river, released, when dams

broke, further upstream - in places she
had never seen and of which she could
only dream. Dust settled between bare
toes, and sighed in dark sorrow at

the edge of sole, until, at last, as the
sun fell limply into stubbled fields,
she dropped her feet over the edge;
and washed the grains of dirt and memory

from all that she had become in that
time, at the edge of ageing worlds.

https://dversepoets.com/2017/03/21/poetics-the-river/

Impressions

Your thoughts applied
so physically; thick and
barely formed, to paint
the essence critically;
dark colours, blurred,
forlorn. And in the drip
of wet, soft fear, the tones
reduced my heart, with
grey and black and solemn
strokes, tearing me apart.
No light allowed, no sun
could reach, no play of hope
bestowed, and sunset drew
the dawn’s bright face;
death’s cock would
mournful crow.


Meet the Bar with impressionism

days

days write large in moments,
weeks which seal the hours,
months to make it solid;
so the years are formed.

in the drip of minutes, in
the fall of days, in the hold
of months, we see... our
lives are full displayed. 

Spring

Spring of teal plays nautical,

hawsers set in flight, 

secured upward curvature;
released from deepest hide.

Flinging wash of moment, 

season rises fast, 

mattress for the Summer;

blossoms quickly cast.

Equinox is vernal,

solstice beckons strong,

power is coil eternal;

seed in bursting song.

 

https://dversepoets.com/2017/03/13/quadrille-28/

Despair

In that moment when hope
screams hollow, lost for all
time, falling down into a
darkness which cannot be

imagined, and yet which is
always feared; hidden from
sight, but not thought; that
is when despair pegs itself

to the line of consciousness,
held in place, at the mercy
of the winds, and blazing
sun, for what seems eternity.

Memento

It has faded, the image
of Christ, we bought in
Russia. Neither of us
believed, but valued

the art of the icon, in
which others invest so
much faith, hope and
trust, deserving to have

it more than we did,
and yet, perhaps in that
place of non-belief, we
put our coins on the

counter, as an act of
trust, hope and faith,
even if we did not know
it, or, even dared to think

that it might possess a
power beyond its small,
material self, which,
while faded, in that time

bleeding which happens
to all things, still offers
beauty, grace, and a faint
sense of pure possibility.

https://dversepoets.com/2017/02/28/one-memento/

Prose

I pose the possibility
that prose is not a word
to fit with any poetry;
the concept is absurd.

For prose is just the way
we speak, no metre, and
no rhyme; no meeting to
be had, in poetry sublime.



https://dversepoets.com/2017/03/02/mtb-prose-poetry