Brimketill, Reykjanes

Why do they let it go, the sea
Back to its roil and tumble
The clefts, the nooks, the craggy 
Holes can’t seem to hold on to
The rushing blue and white the
Blackness of the rocks darker
As they let it slip through
Their fingers, tears down the faces
Of cliffs. Why do they not keep
The frantic waters sheltered in
Steep hollows, shallows with no
Traces of the deep, silent
Holding its grief in sleep. Why would
The ocean crash into stony
Arms if its heart was not bent
On seeking its keep.

Advertisements

Rocks Seen From the Edges of Cliffs

Image may contain: ocean, cloud, sky, outdoor, nature and water

Last night I dreamt my body was in revolt again
That I had never learnt to be afraid of spiders
And they were attacking me again. That the fear
Of hissing noises and hanging from cliffs
Had never rewired my brain and now I was
Falling, reaching for slithering vines with
Venom in their teeth. And I think how billions
Of deaths have not taught us what to do
With grief. So many, I had not thought death
Had not taught us so many truths and ways to
Go on living. No phobias, no thicker skins,
No recoil from the hiss and bite of grief. How has
Evolution passed us by, I think. Maybe, as usual,
I have the wrong end of this writhing mess. Maybe
It is grief that keeps us human in the face
Of so much ugliness.

Homeward Bound

I saw lightning fly from
Cloud to cloud etching arrows
In the sky. I saw the edge
Of dawn sketching thunder
Silent and black. I saw the moon
Stand guard high above; an act
Of faith. In truth, our descent
Traced its arc, a crescent of
Returning. Let lightning
Follow my flight, I think, let
Each arrow be a burning. Let
The glow of day be born in pain
Each shade a stroke of learning.
Let courage be an act of faith
And rain, the thunder’s yearning.

Remembrance

Is sometimes the rushing
Of a green river, carving
Stone pillars in the crumbling canyons
Of my Heart. Driven apart.
The riven highlands offer the years
A pebble at a time. A rock here
And there standing when
All about broke into dust eons
Ago. Today is a bridge under
Which the rushing waters sound
The deep, a thing to stand on
When all else seems tumbling
Past. To not have to leap. This
Bridge will not be
The last.

Image may contain: sky, outdoor, nature and water

Dear Sir,

I wish to apply
For mercy – I have committed
So many sins that come under
Crimes permitted, a column
That is not included in your
Many paged form. I
Would also like to apply
For the right to breathe
The air of conference rooms
For the right to unsheathe
Words, driven to the hilt
Into conversations. My application
Includes a petition of
Guilt for arguments built
From scratch. Dear sir,
Or madam, as the case may be,
I’ve never been to your esteemed
Country. If you wish to scan
My irises you will see,
Into my soul, no doubt, and
My fingerprints will vouch
For my political integrity. I
Could provide you further
With a colonoscopy, but I feel
In my guts that you’ll brook no
Ifs, ands, or buts, and so
Dear Sir, please feel free
To take imprints of all accounts,
-Banks, permits, degrees –
I make no confession to virtues
In my possession. Visa granting is
Really all that is wanting.