Pierces the pink blind
At whose edge fumble the sun’s
Fingers till one obtrudes
And stirs the thick motes.
The room is a close box of pink warmth.
The minutes click.
A man picks across the street
With a metal-pointed stick.
Three clocks drop each twelve pennies
On the drom of noon.
The birds end.
A child’s cry pricks the hush.
The wind plucks at a leaf.
The birds rebegin.
Submitted by Stephen Fryer
Similar Posts
I, after difficult entry through my mother’s blood
I, intricate, easily unshipped, untracked, unaligned;Cut off in my communications; stammering; speakingA dialect shared by you, but not you and you;I, strangely undeft, bereft; I searching alwaysFor my lost rib (clothed in laughter yet understanding)To come round the corner of Wardour Street into the SquareOr to signal across the Park and share my bed;I, focus…
This shape without space,
This stream without dimensionSurrounds us, flows through us,But leaves no mark.This message without meaning,These tears without eyesThis laughter without lipsSpeaks to us but does notDisclose its clue.These waves without seaSurge over us, smooth us.These hands without fingersClose-hold us, caress us.These wings without birdsStrong-lift us, would carry usIf only the one thread broke.Submitted by Stephen Fryer
Old women look intently at Nothing when the doctor
shrunk left breast.Girls’ hands hold Nothing when the train sucks theirmen from the platform and scoops them down theslipway of rail.Nothing beats in deafened ears on the empty andgodless altars of mountain tops.Nothing is the final strength of the strong: thelast poison on the crumpling lips of the weak.Submitted by Stephen Fryer
People will touch and talk perhaps easily,
And warm as sunlight;And people will untie themselves,As string is unknotted,Unfold and yawn and stretch and spreadTheir fingers;Unfurl, uncurl, like seaweed returnedTo the sea.And work will be simple and swiftLike a seagull flying;And play will be casual and quietLike a seagull sitting.And the clocks will stop, and no – oneWill wonder or care or notice.And…
Symphony In Red
Within the churchThe solemn priests advance,And the sunlight, stained by the heavy windows,Dyes a yet richer red the scarlet bannersAnd the scarlet robes of the young boys that bear them,And the thoughts of one of these are far away,With carmined lips pouting an invitation,Are with his love – his love, like a crimson poppyFlaunting amid…
We are a people living in shells and moving
Watching the world from a corner of half-closed eyelids,Afraid lest someone show that he hates or loves us,Afraid lest someone weep in the railway train.We are coiled and clenched like a foetus clad in armour.We hold our hearts for fear they fly like eagles.We grasp our tongues for fear they cry like trumpets.We listen to…