The brightest song I have ever sung
The sweetest picture ever I drew
In all the worlds and visions among
were the merest sketches of
beautiful you.
Christopher M. Swan 2009
What I can't do from this great distance
is hug and kiss you, for instance.
But I can whisper in your ear ~
and tell you that I hold you so dear ~
and that I'd be there with you ~
at your merest insistence.
If
you say
Adam Schiff
should have his day,
maybe get a whiff
of power, making hay
on the nation’s fiscal cliff,
then you’re bright. You know Chick-Fil-A
(not the same thing as a secure SCIF)
is where bit-coin investors go to play,
the merest capitalist hieroglyph:
Coca-Cola, too, has feet of clay.
So, Socialism: jpeg? Gif?
Develop it in your tray:
to know the truth, just sniff.
This won’t go away.
You’re cool? You’re stiff?
Straight, or gay?
One riff –
PAY.
We did not speak of rain;
only the wish that our love
could be again.
The air was bone-dry,
with only the merest glimpse,
of wispy cloud remnants,
in the sky.
But, our thoughts, hopes and wishes
coalesced to form empty
puffy, fluffy, white cloud receptacles.
That we could seed with intent,
by prying drops, one at a time,
from memories long forgotten
gone bone dry.
We tapped our reminiscences,
of the good times we shared,
buried deep in our dry parched ground.
We sent each droplet squeezed,
aloft to gather
in the clouds above.
The clouds darkened with foreboding,
reluctance and trepidation,
as their burden grew
with expectation overdue.
At last, the clouds,
topped up to brimming full,
could hold on no longer!
They burst and gushed out with raindrops.
That toppled on our heads,
sprouting our seeds,
watered from the clouds above,
seeded with our love.
Perhaps you think I’m sitting here, amazed.
Egregious as the test you set me is,
the truth is, I am utterly unfazed.
Desultory, to me, this kind of quiz.
Of course I like a challenge. Don’t we all?
God’s chosen one? The lawyer. He gets his.
Concupiscence I’ll use (I have the gall):
attendant difficulties, I ignore.
Tough polysyllables? The merest squall
before the sunshine. What I most adore,
objectively, is playing with your mind:
you throw me junk, I somehow make it soar.
So do your worst. I thrive on rotten rind.
Opprobrium I effortlessly flout,
neglect embrace: contumely, leave behind.
The rancour’s like the Russians, put to rout,
or North Koreans, tied up, tamed and tazed.
You’ll try, but you will never catch me out.
I stopped - quietened my breath
to a merest ration of air
so as to isolate
the sound I heard coming
from where two glowing eyes
peered out of the dark.
It was as if a fear
had found a form to possess
and from a distance
observe me to find
an opening
through which to enter.
Reason had me pulling
the moment apart
to see what would fit
a name and thus trap
the unexplained
in a cage of fact.
But whatever it was
had quietly disappeared
and left me there
uneasy, troubled by the notion
that it had found a way
to infiltrate air.
Long for the tender tormenting touch of her slips, a vermillion vice of the abyssal depths that lay within the merest brush of her breath, a zephyr's caress that set aflame the parched arid landscapes of my wasteland as sighs hollow echoes whispered promises grew, the inferno of my longing raged, a maelstrom of need that threatened to consume all reason, all restraint in the swirling crimson vortex of those velvets, the boundaries of our recurrent reality grew tenuous, and the tyranny of the flesh held sway as the flexuous uncharted curves of your caress became the acid test of my resolve, dissolving the fragile, varnished veneer of self control, as the confinement of thy desires began to dissolve like gossamer under the scorching waxen sun of ardent, copious passion.
As we entwined, visceral privilege awoke, like hydras flourishing in some foresworn elixir, every casual respite yawned vacant, sucked into the vampiric vortices of intolerably testy discontent.
How provoking, this postponement of unbound reciprocity, tongue just grazing the tips of those plush velvet onyx lips, while catalyzing inveigling suspense
REFLECTION
I'm left, now staring into the mirror's reflection
A face, showing the merest hint of resignation
What is to be, will be, as others may have said
Moving forward to tomorrow with a heavy tread
Securing the day's agenda without reservation
Uncaring of any real or imagined imperfection
But can silvered glass really see me deep inside
As it has no intelligence, memory nor perception
All it can do is reflect one's innermost thoughts
Realising it's much more than ones and noughts
It can be no more than merely a true reflection
With no sensitivity to a viewer's shame or pride
It does reverse the image seen, from left to right
We've no control over the way lightwaves travel
But its main contribution is to the way we think
Hoping that the image survives when we blink
But modern physics can make all of this unravel
Yet we all should be grateful for our gift of sight
A Path Unknowable
every thought we harbour
every choice we make
can lead us on a journey
we’re not sure we should take
for roads in life are mostly
unknowing of journey’s end
and the merest deviation
another fork or bend
is always waiting somewhere
as surely as the day
an impasse an uncertainty
a questioning of the way
though the pathways that we’re taking
may seem that they are fated
each decision is a conscious one
not randomly created
know the road you travel
has been walked upon before
by others who have passaged
seen what lies behind each door
wherever you may journey
to whatever you aspire
keep close all those who know your heart
safe haven when you tire
Wazza
High on remote cliffs,
wildflowers huddle
between
wind scalped boulders,
heads kept down,
their roots weaved
into crevices
where a little soil has been
won from rain wash
and wear. They grow
surrounded by a constant
howl, just above
the clawing fingers
and thrown up fury
of waves.
Deep
in their creviced home,
they snatch only
a brief, upward glimpse
of a passing sun,
life confined more
to a damp sliver of shade
sandwiched between stone.
No broad vistas
but a claustrophobic crush,
a cramped space
from where they gasp
for freedom.
For centuries
they have lived like this.
Generations have come
and gone, the living
nourished by the flesh
of the dead.
Countless human wars
have been fought, lost
and won. Year after year
they bloom, yearning
to be noticed, fed
on the merest ration
of light shed
by a merciless sun.
Thank you, they cry,
Thank you.
RENEWAL
The seasonal baton has been handed on
Months of renewal lie ahead on the track
Winter’s cold and unfeeling face is now gone
And the growing warmth of spring is welcomed back
Relishing the chance to smile and laugh once more
In contrast to the grim time just weeks before
Of lingering memories, the merest hint
Each year runs a marathon, never a sprint
The thought of traveling is inspiring to me.
So many amazing countries I've read about.
Places I've dreamed of visiting and long to see
by plane, rail, or car. Whatever my chosen route.
Excitement begins when my decision is made
as to where I'll go, close to home or far away.
Walking on a beach and watching the sunlight fade.
Perhaps this winter, riding in a one horse sleigh.
Planning the journey is always part of the fun.
Whether I'll be daytripping in Scotland's heather
or the Alps, my travelogue will be finely spun.
When it's time to get away, I have no tether.
I'll pack a bag on an impulse or merest whim.
Destination not always chosen in advance.
I've not thrown a dart at a map as a prelim,
but wherever it lands, I'd find reason to dance.
MOMENT
But how long does a moment last
Perhaps a second, or more if sad
That instant that comes and goes
Much shorter than la vie en rose
A brief time slot that I never had
But missed, that time has passed
It is as long as it takes to realise
That in a twinkling, it has gone
But for some, that moment stays
Perhaps a face or just a phrase
Too short a time to think upon
When it’s over, opportunity dies
It’s a gap between speeding cars
Too tight to be stepping through
What was before and will soon be
Is the merest chink for a memory
With a risk that it may be untrue
But your mind is filled with stars
A Blue Heron unleashes itself from a
surfing wind and flowing sky.
Wings spread it rides, almost hovering,
as it seeks a nestled place to land.
There, the long reeds
have been hollowed out by its mate,
but she has gone to fish,
gone elsewhere.
The bird lands,
for a moment its long legs are buoyed
by the merest whisp of gravity.
The heron settles, folding its wings
like a cloak around him,
now as the wind ruffles its feathers
he seems only a scrawny effigy,
of the bird in flight,
a plumed twig planted in the disturbed shallows.
The pond ripples with silver whispers,
small fish dart, their heads
arrowing deeper.
The Great Blue
strides slowly to the shoreline
becomes a living statue,
a patient presence
amid the rushing blow.
That is when I saw
how the world is stirred around
by a stillness,
how an unmoving center
can turn within a heron's eye.
CONVERSATION
Tell me Polly, what does it say?
Well, I’m not sure I wish to share
Please, I never receive letters
Ah, I’m sorry for you, Leila
Oh, Polly, is it from – him?
Yes, it is from Edmund Stanton
Ah, that man from the party last week?
You remember him then?
Alas, the merest introduction
Yes, for me too – but we talked some
Go on, read it to me, I must know
Well, it alludes to an opera we saw
During your visit to Aunt Elspeth?
Yes, in London, last Spring
And you met him at the theatre?
A most memorable production
So what is the connection, Polly?
We were seated next to each other
You never told me this before
I know, but this letter shares our secret
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