Wild shadow, you hold me in your embrace
Apollo of the universe, infinity overwhelms me
I hear the clinking of wandering waves
The back-and-forth motion of life’s pulsations.
Unaware, I dive into a black hole, moved
I surrender my soul, soothed, in love
In love as never before with an unknown world
The silent path of gentle, cherished values.
I vibrate with the harmony of dreamed sounds.
Elegant notes rise toward the sky
Tulip petals with broken bells
Life’s songs carry essential tones.
Deep silence, you capture a trembling shift
Without a doubt, a note — light of absence.
Relief of the spirit at the gates of time
The awakening of the Night is a rebirth.
Joël Charvillat.
Garland in 1960~
a town stitched together
with sunlight, screen doors,
and shopping in the ‘square’
The air smelt of freshly cut grass
and the faint sweetness of Dr Pepper
drifting from corner stores
where we kids pressed nickels into warm palms
and dreamt of comic-book adventures.
Main Street moved slow then~
shop windows filled with promise,
diners clinking with coffee spoons,
the art deco Plaza Theater on Main Street~
its clock stopped as if time had nowhere else to be.
Evenings arrived quietly,
twilight’s hush settling over the ‘square.’
Crickets played their tiny violins; and
porch lights flickered on
like small, faithful stars.
And in those wide Texas twilights,
the world felt safe enough
to wander barefoot,
to believe in tomorrow,
to carry home the quiet certainty
that life was good
and grace was near.
This is an ode to John and his iconic bucolic pub "the Golden Smog" up in Stockton on Tees..
What makes a proper pub?
Unity in a community hub
Immunity from the hubbub
With others shoulders rub
Opportunity you can’t snub
Our own homegrown club
Bubbling banter from the bar
In the cellar need a stellar star
Other views & hues don’t scar
Ales & tales so far above par
No-one argues or does spar
Clinking & sinking another jar
John a helluva fella just say ta
No bigotry is all he does ask
No hate lurking behind a mask
A sisyphean or herculean task
In the company of others bask
No sip from a hidden hip flask
Cheers to beers from the cask
Where the weekend will begin
Delaying within escape the din
Time to spend with ken and kin
Getting you through thick & thin
Whetting our whistles.. chin chin
A third place where a grin will win
To miss this bliss is a cardinal sin
A home from home just staying in!
A rumbling and a shaking
The rain heavy
The thunder roaring
Lightning cuts the sky
Trees sway belligerently
Sand and dust
Break the air
The furious wind
Encourages euphoric whims
The rod is blossoming
Pride is budding
Rumour building
Mischief upon mischief
Pounds on the earth
Mischief upon mischief
Mischief has a staircase
Linear patterns
Cascading virtues in blinking imbroglio,
Masquerading piety in a clinking tunnel
Chanting sophistry in dinky dashes
The glass fell
It could not be held
They broke the serenity
With soapy fingers
They grasped the glass
The pieces litter the floor
Another tried to piece the pieces
Which were precariously shaped
And pricked the gatherer at will
What a cock-a-doodle – doo!
Now I look to the Heavens
I see a land
A faraway land
In the distant horizon
Beyond the seas
A great solace
The people a great people
A magnificent race
Beyond the clouds
Beyond the skies
This land, a lofty land
A magnified edifice
Of kaleidoscopic nature
A worthy conglomerate
Of total bliss.
memories hold sway
unburdened by silent hours
bringing back the day
ghosts with magical powers
lived through images which were ours
penny for your thoughts
as sunlight peaked though shade
we were casting lots
when we should have been afraid
what we had, subject to trade
reaching in the dark
for soft surrounding of you
moment turning stark
so next day, away I flew
love and longing both made true
standing on the beach
looking out to pale blue sky
past waiting world's reach
pretending was final lie
which left me as the bad guy
disturbed man crying
on cold foggy London day
why was I spying
"God Save the Queen" starts to play
not able to look away
ruby sangria
drunk glass after clinking glass
through no culpa mea
thinking through all which had passed
life moved along much too fast
frail phantoms circling
push the past into mind's sight
nothing worsening
ghostly visions our birthright
ghosts soon vanished into night
Starts as a weep
A subtle slice through the silence
Tiny drops fall quiet and steady
All day all night no bother at all
Th journey of each drop
From sky to land
From reservoir to tap
The crisp fresh water flows
Breaking through the rubber gasket
Drip drip
Seeping down walls to windows
Shelves to floors
The slow unrelenting drip
Steady as a metronome
Consumes every second with metallic clinking
A tainted brown as it eats seals
Every drop speeds up
A click like a clock
Tiny drops turn to big drops
Holding back that torrent
A background noise turns loud
The mental torture of hearing a constant tapping
One turn of tap releases the pressure
Insanity reaching its peak
Before the inevitable flood
One action or moment can calm this
Biking through winter's fog machine
as flakes swarm them to keep them warm,
kids exhale and are vaporized
from sight still clunking and clinking.
So much for fresh snow to unpack,
I wander across a
vanishing track.
Loose ends left dangling make you nervous.
They crave a neat knot-tie for a conclusion.
A bow to seal, a ribbon to heal,
like shoe-laces they want to be retied,
to not trip you up.
For loose ends left behind,
untied and loose,
leave you distracted,
not seeing what's coming next.
But, secretly we love
loose ends left hanging, dangling,
like wind chimes in the wind.
Softly clinking and clanging,
unsettling and distracting,
buying us time to stall,
and delay their resolution.
For while a thread still dangles,
we can glance that way,
look at it, and pretend,
we have nothing loose,
to end and lose.
And the phone rings
Your name splashed across my screen
I answer but you are not there
Were you ever?
A thousand times my hand has hovered
Balanced over your number
Torn between wanting
Knowing what will happen
Clinking glasses, muffled voices
Straining, to hear you again
Waiting, wanting, hoping
But it’s too late
Too late to be calling me
Another reckless accident
The definition of us
A fitting epitaph in echo
Then ended, so you know
I delete the number, again
So it can’t be me
It never was me.
There was an old man who marched in Dublin,
danced to malachite past, wore shammocks lean.
Guinness stout in clinking glass
he drank whole night en masse.
Through the day he dreamed Celtic dreams umpteen.
Our baby is ten months old
Today I heard a loud clinking sound in his mouth
Chased him around the room
Wrestled it out of there
It was a pair of eyeglasses
One lens was gone
I hope they are my readers from the dollar store
I have nineteen pairs of them lying around the house.
If they were my husband’s bifocals, I had better stay mum
Baby dug up the asphalt driveway last month
An English cream retriever, who cannot leave anything alone.
Crystal, half a flute-full.
Catchphrase at midnight hour.
Clinking blossoming glass.
Carefree effervescence.
Chilly sips with lipstick.
Cradle of New Year, rocks.
Calendar decks the wall.
Clinking, clinking
I heard the clinking in
repetition
what could
cause
whatever object this is to
make this clinking sound.
Clink!
The loudest sound
yet.
peaking my interest
one's honest admission
dredged from it's
translucence
clear in obvious
objective
gaining my attention
I relaxed towards
it's conclusion
blanketing myself
to warm my now
needing desire
Commercial Trait
"the new Boattailed Designed"
Excelesor
------------------
by Eccentric Motors
Excalesor Sports Luxury and
Styling Personified!
Buy Now! You Know!
Voted Car of The Year by
Bezel and Binnacle Magazine
and Select Best Overall
by Carrosserie and Standards
Power Pro Club and Trophy
Naming this Vehicle best
overall according to the standards
of Performance and safety
The best Value award is said to
be the best endorsement in The Industry
The Inspiring Designer Magazine
Named it
"it's Vehicle of the Year
Awarded The Design Team
The Crystal Palace Trophy
Deus Volt I scream by my brother's side,
a distinct bell rings measuring 39mm wide,
high stepping over the deconstructed rubble,
klashnikov volley is what's giving us trouble,
our advancement through the city begins to slow,
primary and secondary left with one mag to go, (clink)
armor so tight it impedes the breathing, (clank)
honor steps in like a sword unsheathing, (clink)
clinking of a grenades stops under my chest,
my brothers have been saved you know the rest.
night folds its endless hands—
shadows stretch & scatter
(aching)
for warmth
for a flicker.
a mother whispers prayers, her voice
a cradle—
soft syllables swaying
against the weight of exile’s wind.
one wick, then another—
then eight:
flames lean into each other,
(dizzy with hope)
(drunk with remembering).
oil scarce as breath,
yet its story unfolds:
a temple reclaimed
a heart unbroken.
the menorah blinks its quiet Morse code:
endure.
endure.
endure.
children spin tops—
letters clinking against the wood—
(miracles inscribed
in the simplest of things)
while fathers tell tales that climb
the walls like vines, rooting in
tomorrow.
each candle rises like a soldier—
small,
steadfast.
above, the stars watch,
silent witnesses to a people
who (always)
remember how to
make light.
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