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Best Poems Written by Michael Mccreadie

Below are the all-time best Michael Mccreadie poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Michael Mccreadie Poem

I Can'T Forget

I wake
cold and uneasy .
Fitful, next to 
fate’s anonymity.

The savannah interior
frees me,
from local textual thoughts,
and the worlds addiction.

Refused
the inheritance 
of earlier memory.
The girl, a dream of trains and weight returns.

We had histories
You know!
Rain washed lives,
late to change, distant in the burden of experience.


And I think I called
her,
but in burnt mornings
the words scrabble for numerical sense.

Always my superior,
I couldn’t arrange
for my sentence
to compete.

Not when your up against a champ!

I lull, 
back to Solomon’s song,
the morning of sleep
and dark water.

I believe,
my phantom body, 
has fooled me again,
and recite………….

I can’t remember to forget you

Details | Michael Mccreadie Poem

Remembering Your Breath

Your breath,
now silent from my lips,
issues instruction
to sentient
others.

And you partially
recall
my own
jumbled style,
fresh, with your cinnamon scent.

The art
of remembering
is never to forget,
you
in the night of the triptych song.

Drawn
on the canvas,
of vivid
fuschia coloured memory.
I am, textual in purpose.

This
neural faith
shows little compassion,
and
saves only the tactile of images.

Details | Michael Mccreadie Poem

The Burning River

Sloe,
and black as Gin
I am the slave
of the spated, sibilant river.
It is opaque and powerful,
panting wearily like a dog.
It waits
and implores me,
to drink the perfumed wet earth
from which its voice emits.
In gasps as muted as wisdom,
I grapple in grated tones 
to quench the voices of ancestral hunger,
reciting the names of your Wiccan tale.
And, as of fire
eddies of heat and colour form 
turbulent sweet taste, 
imminent in their thermal latency,
dark in the discomfort of daytime.
For where there is light, there are shadows too.
In this chaos of burning, 
I pray for the violence of weather,
Its elemental desire forms the essence of all memory.
Again and again, I inhale a thousand times 
the smoky haze of change
against the image of charred water on charcoal.
I am burnt against the cool of evening,
the darkening sky,
and the beat of flaming water on stone.
It is a visceral vision.
I feel the age,
It is as old as the swans of coole,
as certain as the solitary song of Herbsttag,
as definite as the will of water.

Details | Michael Mccreadie Poem

Notes On Islands

Long travelled 
am I,
amongst words
that have sailed
in and out of months
beyond the horizon
of years and age.
Set down
and scrolled out
in lexical identity
on parchment stane
quarried and carried
in the soft strom
of half light.

Earlier
I gave
a cursory nod
to the old man,
I had not considered then
that his solitary stature
would guide so many.
But his
aching, half arched frame
in washed out form,
guards entry 
and signals the 
traveller
of tides the 
glimpse of long lost siblings.

And in your flatter
inflexion,
my attention drew,
to the obvious
island words,
that take shape
their derivative
prose.
Sung in angular
and Whale like form
their signature
icon denotes 
my spiritual home.







And so,
the ellipsis
hidden from view
was always there,
its codified embodiement
still breathing amongst the living,
in you and I,
and all the seas
that ever were.
For time,
as with the bluntness 
of Helgi’s flint like passion

…………the writing is on the wall

Details | Michael Mccreadie Poem

Stelae 7:30 Am

True,
they have seen more 
than their age.
But in the hazy,
half morning
field of “stelae”,
we, somnambulant
observers,
select our optimal view
between the pages of the Talmud.

Coded,
In the text of your staccato voice,
there is,
our consensual agreement of being.
It is not quite,
the signatured artefact
of strict adherence,
more the oral history
of a recent past. 


And,
having recorded
our verse,
concrete and solid.
You have in your mind
the route of discussion.
It is the briefest of tours,
and talks of lives lived
preceding these recent events.


We return.
The streets now awash
with preparation,
I commit to memory the impression of you.
I am conscious.
Limbs that will soon ache with fatigue,
alight from metro and tram
and converge,
on a morning
that is already spent.

Details | Michael Mccreadie Poem

Febrile Night

I awoke
in the febrile night again,
half dazed
from my conviction 
of your certainty,
contorted
by the pounding of 4 am, 
and still restless
with vestigial sleep.
My sense for rain
laps the water
of vestibular illusion
and I am again in the Venetian
dusk of your warmth.
Somewhere,
between July
and this dense archipelago
I hear the whisper of November,
it is the chilled first day,
shared with menses 
and candle shadow.
It is all seasons
and every brush stroke of memory,
it is the in-escapable,
visual artefact,
of you.

Details | Michael Mccreadie Poem

Conversations At Dusk

And what if
on that long walk
you had said of me
this in-between day
Is yours.

Would the dry earth open?
Would we burn  bridges
to Consume all?
In the sureness of mind
that our words will repeat.

A thousand islands
bustled along,
streets of dead language and dusk.
While you translated
anograms
on pavement patterns .  

And in the rapid passing of night
we rush from timeless sleep,
and whisper in soft tones
to awaken    
I
the traveller of wind

This memory I write 
is but the conversation of your voice,  
and we will watch 
the sky break again
on the promise that we made.

Details | Michael Mccreadie Poem

The Missing Piece

It was always the case,
I was never Valentino.
No matter 
what chatter took me for.


Sure, like you
I enjoyed the duel.
But barbed conversation
blunts the appetite.


No,
my odyssey
was not for conquest, 
or trophies for Ithaca


I sought a world 
reflexively experienced.
The siren sings,
"I have long heard you in my voice.'


And so,
I thought you understood.
This dialogical person
cannot be reduced.


The thought
then arises.
My subjective centre of being,
is the knowing of you.


Alas, it is too denotata
for ordinary language.
True friendship
Is the love of rhythm and code.





And all conscious experience
remains shared with you.
It is the mother and metaphor
of all existence.


Embedded, in knowing
is the actual being of commitment.
And conversation?
It declares itself eternal,


witnessing the final act.
While I sit
punctuating the prose of understanding…………………..



And listen to your attentive silence.

Details | Michael Mccreadie Poem

Of Firths and Fathers

In weathers un-listened geography
I await the late years
low ambient yellow
that will dissolve
the drenched slumber
of landscape grey and spindrift froth.

Names of other elemental places
slip beneath the door,
they are given character
of sea scape gust, and mercator projection
softened in the description
"slight"

They veer now,
howling their last
close to battered breath tide,
striking afresh the holm of landfall
where waterline inhales the outrun
of each encroaching wave.

The night splits
and torch lit dawn
illuminates muscular wrestled trees,
bent as hungover drunks.
And you and I sing to their jetsome,
mindless as children

Details | Michael Mccreadie Poem

Unhinged

Unhinged, the tree hangs
delicately,
from the last,
broken bough.

She, passed
this way
in her fractile motion,
perpetual to the end

With hands clasped
behind,
her reckless eye wanders,
to my hourglass smile

Too long now
the old man reminds,
tired limbs
that rock aching heads

until faded
in cold faith
all dust
and time