soundofmanywaters

    I am not sure if I have ever seen you, Indigo. Perhaps my heart leaped up and I Overlooked Your shyest of tinges, by brighter shades Shaded. Maybe the rain rinsed you until you Faded Into neighbouring violet or blue, or Evaporated By the sun, who likes red and gold best, you Withdrew From the bolder six, or maybe you Never Existed except in the thoughts of some Dim Numerological completist, who Wanted Your name to score a perfect seven? Hope Not, but I would like to know More people tinged with Indigo.

Homo Disneyana Lopes through the litterscape Of the late Anthropocene Leaving a trail of  discarded identities From whose throes arises An army of the maimed. Disneyana stands, turns, Proclaims his creed as  a counter-curse: “I can be anything I want!” But the spectres unimpressed Crowd forward and The pursuit begins.  II Scrolling through the screenscape Of the early thanatocene Disneyana hopes a void  To echo his vacuity…  But the stardust drifts  into disturbing shapes Almost as if there were a mind… Jabbing out the cosmos, He rams in his earbuds And grabs for a safer app -  “I’ll catalogue my selfies!” - Not to hear the Voice,  Not to see the Face: “I can be anything I want,”  “Except Yours.” III Saints Walt and Jeff, Saint Mark and Saint Elon Are gathered round the bed he lies upon. They’re watching every flicker of his eyes And planning means by which to monetise Each moment of his rapt attention. As he performs his daylong adoration Be...

Master, how many ways are there that I am yours? As the poem is the poet’s, You conceived me. As I am my mother’s, by Your Spirit You bore me. As my hand enacts my thoughts, You embody Yourself in me. As the field is the warrior’s, You conquered me. As the dragon’s hoard is the hero’s, You despoiled my enemies of me. As the pearl is the merchant’s, with all You had You bought me. As a house becomes a home, You inhabit me. As a chair fits to its carpenter, You fashion me  As the garden is the gardener’s, You labour in me. So Yours that if You cease to think of me I must return to quanta fizzling aimlessly Into the void, and can no longer be. Then since I am Your own so variously One more way to be Yours now offer me, The grace to give myself, entire and free. So I am Yours, You mine, eternally.

  An angel once walked here,  with power to waken stone - So what does this people make  of the superhuman frame, The severe classical frown,  not disdaining but ignoring Those who walk at shin level  to his unshakeableness? Or of what other masters left,  renaissance forms  Assured eternally  of their own elegance? Like a youngster doomed  to an older brother far too Athletic or clever,  we can only learn to make the best of our pettiness,  and mirror him in caricature,  in a million mawkish plasters.

Drifting through these songless woods Leaves like late bedraggled butterflies Flutter in a dismal winter wind. Puddles are dancing wetly  To a rhythmless rain And February feels forever… But now my steps go squelching Through a hazel grove – catkins! Dusty fingers feeling for the Spring Make golden notes upon a silver stave That spell for the mind attuned a tinkling song Inaudible except to the imagination But soon will swell, descanted, bassed  And multiplied into fortissimo – And I aim to be dancing when it comes.

  This Poem was taken off the blog, slightly adjusted, and is now back on again. Sadly President Putin's special military operation is still ongoing. Red Army Choir This is not a war Rumbled the tank as it crushed a car With dad inside.   This is not a war Howled the missiles as they homed in On a maternity ward.   This is not a war Whistled the torturer As he inserted his probe.   This is not a war Chanted the bullets as they hunted Children through a playground.   This is not a war Bellowed the bombs as they blasted A theatre with a full house.   Blood oozed red under rubble. The audience did not applaud.

Please start at the bottom... above your clouds, clear new perspectives... a taste for mountaineering and, ascending that they and you both live. Perhaps you'll get within the limits of your stilted semaphore to connect with distant others, let them see a hatch that opens out upon the rooftops and labour upwards. Who knows, you might find once in a while, the page's gravitation it cannot fly, at least let it resist only black ink is left. Even if a rumination upon ruin, until fourteen steps down into the cellar and work up. A sonnet need not always be Please start at the bottom of this page