Poetry

Jacob Wrestling With The Angel, Rembrandt (1659) [ Source] A little East of Jordan, Evangelists record, A Gymnast and an Angel Did wrestle long and hard Till morning touching mountain And Jacob, waxing strong, The Angel begged permission To Breakfast – to return! Not so, said cunning Jacob! “I will not let thee go Except thou bless me” – Stranger! The which acceded to Light swung the silver fleeces “Peniel” Hills beyond, And the bewildered Gymnast Found he had worsted God! ...

[ Pixshark] I have your name etched on my skin, its lines and curves and slants edged in rich, deep black. I carry your face in my memory, nestled like a flash of bright white light saves the sameness of a dark spring night. Your name is a call and echo, one that I murmur like the repeating melody of a descant; the twang of a bow’s string reverberating in the stillness of the valley air, the thud of an arrow steered unerringly as it rips into a doe’s ribcage. ...

Forgive me if I disappear here, if like a dying Shooting star my flight expires in a flash of light, yielding To the encircling murk, this shroud that slowly stultifies. Forgive me if my quivering lips neglect to tell my tale Of broken shattered things and distant pains that still remain And this unyielding weight; of things quotidian and unseen. Why can’t skies have clouds and stars\* and enthralling moon light too? Why must a pilgrim find his way, on slippery pavements too? ...

[Source: Wikipedia] The Dog Star flickers, Its garb a rainbow plume The view ethereal. --- For the prompt Constellations

[ Image Source] Call me Ishmael.Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sailabout a little and see the watery part ofthe world.It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth. Whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people’s hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs—commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. ...

For Mag 246: Highway A sense that Time has Stood dead still, yet hurtled by; This us, déjà vu

For Mag244 - Passing Time, Daylight drives The delightful linger Of last Night’s Dreams Down deserted streets. The memories of lost days Are all that we have left, Distorted by the Edge of Now, As it pales Into the grey haze Of accreting history Here, on the edge of Reality is a sense Of treading water, Of marking time Of trawling a parched, Bland land, Of War And peace, and silence And of Endings ...

For LK, and the Mag I wish there were no ifs Or buts, or lingering maybes - But only the delirium Of the re-memory of your face, Etched in my heart like The ravines a swollen river Carves in broken shale. I wish there was no ochre coloured space; this drizzled, empty place, stained with this ache from the itch of a thousand broken pieces Oh that there were between you and I - a half uttered invitation. I would cross seven mountains, seven valleys and seven swollen river beds too, to pour a libation at your feet, and revel in this delirium… ...

I want to cover you With words. Ink dots Jumbled together Until they blur Into a scrawl, confused Like the light From a thousand scattered beads I want to hide myself Within the haze Of my re-memory - To somehow, between life And the afterglow From my tired brain, Re-create the time and space That reality stole. But your blank, pure Whiteness mocks me, I find the things I want to say don’t come ...

Image Source I catch myself sighing - Laboured breath held, And then expelled Like the unsteady, Weary chug of a steam Locomotive as it drags Its weighty backsides Up a steep incline. My dreams, a hurried, Harried concoction Of fevered, whispered Half phrases and fearsome Visions of a searing inner fire Haunt me, my mind Slowly numbed by the intense, Unforgettable clarity of a growing insanity And the delirium of delusion. The first time I saw you You were a distant- blob of light, bright pink, shimmering red, blazing sun- shine, driving dirty, grey snow into the corner of Kings and Guilds. Between there and here Is something irretrievably broken a gangrenous, festering sore That refuses to heal, its ochre Colour, the colour of dried blood. I catch myself sighing, Laboured breath held And then expelled slowly Like a puff of cigar smoke. But in the distance, Like a storm cloud bringing rain after a drought Is the redemption of the forget-ting