Excellent! And, you’re most welcome. I look forward to reading more when it comes. :)
In the wayward depths of distance, voices of a thousand men are bolts unto the ground. Before their feet, a faltering, a tremor clipped of sound.
Who charred the vast horizon and replaced the lathe with man?
To study landscapes boldly, shift space and mark the plane. These are my footprints, my fingertips small caverns for the clams and the carts we place around them topple as they drag.
Your shape against the sand devours a shadow where it shakes: make it quake. Thrust your hand before the firmament, damn it with a din. Then let us plait these braids together. Let us sing.
Day descends. Before the break
you will attempt to charge the distance
between hand, mouth and a second
cup of tea. On the countertop
letters lie, begging to be read, but I cannot
string sentences to satisfy or justify this state
when time is toast and a bite
left over is all there is to taste.
(April PAD Challenge – Day 23)
Before the precipice
of belonging,
some vision of falling
and an ache
which is the antithesis
of longing.
Here in this book the corners lie
with shadows for a soul to hide.
What leaves were shed now cast aside
to ferment by the riverside.
And there I lay you down to rest,
recalling every manifest,
and beg the breeze to soothe the breast
that broke before it could invest
in treasures that the world once sold
and doled out to the manifold
who know now not to fear the cold
that comes before the pages fold.
And so, be gone but not aggrieved,
what will was left must not be seized.
For all that we choose to believe,
no stirring yields once efforts ease.
(April PAD Challenge - Day 6)
Peeling through byways, examining corners for posts overturned. No map, no compass, no leaf to catch a breeze.
A distracted voice calls: for whom do you seek? The eternal question prompts the will to break beleaguered breaches, but there are no answers beyond the bends, and the jagged, winding wend of it leads few to face its edge.
On the way to Calvary, a cowgirl lost her horse. This is not a caution to make meaning of, of course.
little seems adequate
these days: words on a table mat
extract more interest than
an abstract of complex precision
and persistence is
a fool’s hunt for gold.
in the palm of my hand
some note mixed with sand
instructions, if you’ll understand.
a sight to behold, no
need to be bold. to wit
I am told I am sold.
(April PAD Challenge - Day 1)
She said, the air looks good from here, stepped off at platform X, dived right in. There was a lull in the awakening, titters from the corner.
No regrets - no absolutes, no recompense, just Now.
A rustle from the layabouts, then the world stood still. The lookers, the dreamers, the talk-and-point makers, fixed fast to the centre of gravity, weighted down.
To the left, a flash of white. Hello, she said, I’m here. I’m not waiting.
The chattering began. She did not care. They saw what they wanted to see. So did she. With arms outstretched, she wandered forward. The voices dimmed.
From here onwards, perpetual motion. No turning back.
(Source: renee-claire)
Once a sapling, I craved light
sheltered beneath branches
I thought were tall.
The shadows taught me to dance
and I was good. A good student,
patient, diligent.
By rote the rules ran straight
though hard. I soon learnt
not to question.
Pale and guarded from the wind
I became weary, drew fallen
leaves around me, settled in.
The bed was warm, but prickly.
I ignored all crisp replies,
accepted comforting.
Do not expect that this was enough.
It is never enough. With time
roots stir, foundations quake,
branches break. Alone
I grew to stretch myself.
I shook, shivered
Felt a gale surge within my depths
and finally knew what it was to feel
the urge to roam.
The day you walked in without purpose to a dimly lit room filled with promise…
What was weight but a flutter of pages swooping to meet the ground. Those traced remnants of misery, let them slip through your fingers - the worn and comfortless cloak of wretched familiarity has buttons too black to ever be resewn.
Through the door there are new surfaces for scribbling and no pockets in that dress to keep a pen.
(Source: renee-claire)
