Details |
Desi Gall Poem
Knock, knock….
Who’s there?
Nothing
Nothing who?
Nothing, nothing!
You mean n-o-t-h-i-n-g , nothing?
Precisely.
Does anyone know you’re here?
No
And if they ask me?
Say nothing
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2019
|
Details |
Desi Gall Poem
Jasper Johns saw the number eight,
And he was illuminated,
Then he started to speculate:
A lonely number should be mated,
I need something with more weight,
And the obvious he deliberated:
Paint with numbers my good man,
I’ll draw them from the colours in my can!
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2019
|
Details |
Desi Gall Poem
No brush will ever render true,
The fluid transparent aqueous blue,
Nor words do justice to describe,
The ebb and flow of rushing tide,
Barely stirring golden dust,
Beneath pellucid glassy thrust;
As I lie within this flow,
Each nerve caressed from head to toe,
My arms outstretched towards the sun,
The sky, the sea and I are one.
I shift my frame from high to deep,
Propel myself with eager feet,
Into the realm of Neptune's lair,
Without a thought, without a care.
I know the Sea-god will not mind,
If I intrude his watery bind;
I come not to invade his reign,
He fears no loss, and knows my gain.
Slowly, into liquid light I sink,
A sudden play of colours blink,
Forming patterns I cannot hold,
Green, vermillion, brown and gold;
Dazzling brightly on the dark
Pillars that now mark,
Lines of a lost citadel,
Laid to sleep inside a bell,
Of silent time, caressed by soft
Currents, which carry aloft
My helpless frame to scare;
Burst the blue membrane, gasp air.
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2019
|
Details |
Desi Gall Poem
I saw her walking out the door,
Eyes met as we took the lift,
Hands touched, when we hit the bar,
I asked her out, that was her gift.
Went for a drive by sea and shore,
We watched the tide, I sensed a shift.
She took me to her room and said:
“Before we start, my name is Ted!”
The moral of this tale is plain to see,
Where there’s a doubt, retreat hastily.
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2019
|
Details |
Desi Gall Poem
They wait perfumed in fresh clothes,
The kids, at the top of the stairs;
We’ll be back by evening Auntie, says the mother,
C’mon or we’ll miss the corriera.
They troop off down the stairs,
Cross a courtyard into the whining of
A carpenters lathe,
And crunching of gravel,
Past Mr.B’s house, with his collection of
Rare coins;
Exit a dank passage and enter a warm
Ochre world.
They greet C in his grocery, which
Smells of cinnamon and washing powder;
Pass the old mill, where legend said
Ghosts roam at night,
Finally reaching the bubbling piazza.
The corriera announces its arrival,
The kids don’t care, they’ve got their Spiderman
Comics to think about.
By sundown they were back, weary,
Sleeping on each others shoulder,
Pity it was all over;
And the kids dream of Spiderman.
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2020
|
Details |
Desi Gall Poem
Was it a reproduction
Of a Rothko in a book resting on his lap,
A swathe of black sky over
A grey sea, perhaps,
That triggered it.
He recalled pictures of
Brutalist concrete bunkers and silos,
Sinister dark steel ramps,
That carried doddlebugs and V2 rockets.
He relived a moment in a
Museum, a Messerschmitt 109,
Hanging from the ceiling
Tilted at an angle
Ready to dive and attack;
Remembered black and white grainy
WW2 photos inside an album,
The fresh faced pilot and crew,
Next to a Wellington back from a raid,
All smiles and thumbs up.
The images came to him tumbling
One after the other like slides from a projector.
Then he looked up,
It wasn’t grey at all.
As if imitating the Rothko,
The cloudless sky,
Floated over a calm,
Cobalt blue sea.
He got up from the sun bed,
Dusted gold sand from his feet
And headed towards
The beach bar.
He thought of stopping
For a drink, then decided not to,
The people were too noisy
And the techno-music too loud,
This was Sopot 2014 after all.
Crossing the wooden walkway
To his hotel, he saw
His girlfriend.
She was showing
A woman an amber necklace
She had bought the day before
At the market.
He moved closer; as the
Woman held the necklace
Towards the light,
He noticed a dark spot on one
Of the stones,
It was a fly, trapped,
And screaming to get out.
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2019
|
Details |
Desi Gall Poem
Woman is a landscape
Soft and silent next to me;
Her hills and valleys,
Her forest and knoll.
Dawn stirs.
Time will
Fashion dark into gold,
Along a silent thread transmit
Its chemical metamorphosis.
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2019
|
Details |
Desi Gall Poem
To some
folks
Life is like
a quillt
For me
It’s a
Cut &
Paste
Job
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2019
|
Details |
Desi Gall Poem
the barber’s fall,
a curtain call,
he snips and twirls
creating curls;
that close shave,
may be grave.
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2019
|
Details |
Desi Gall Poem
I tried to express myself like you,
Your style, rhythm, sense
Of pace and form, which floated
From the page with every piece I read.
It seemed your language was like
A drug, that filled each recess
Of my inner self, made me understand
I was now in a higher state of being.
Each word, every inflection, each
Observation transported me
On a flowing river, sometimes quickly
Sometimes gently and, unfailingly,
Carried me to the sea of knowledge.
I knew I hadn't always grasped,
Your meaning, your intentions,
And had to save your wisdom
For another time, when, with a
Maturer mind I could fathom
That which you had imparted.
But who are you; as others know,
You passed away a long time ago,
And I, a mere journeyman,
Hopefully, carries within me the
Spirit of your voice, inside of mine.
Copyright © Desi Gall | Year Posted 2019
|