London Poem: Day 362

14 August

Another day here in heaven,
Cataloging the bells,
As they toll, to usher in
The next.
What shape does tomorrow carry?
Does it look like a square, triangle?
We have the tools to build
What we want,
But even the best laid plans
Turn belly up.
And still, the church bells,
Continue with their clanging.

London Poem: Day 361

13 August

You are buried beneath the street,
Under soil and ice,
Cradled between fire.
You are hours gone, and
What is missing is merely a
Vague shadow of how I feel now,
During the small hours,
Juggling the meaning of the good
Going out and the bad digging in.
This is the imbalanced world.
I wanted you to be the one
To set it right.

London Poem: Day 360

12 August

Such a small amount of time,
Dripping from tiny little clocks
That forgot they had such power.
The here and in between seems far
When it is clear that soon,
Neither one will possess you.
You are in thin light,
Dying quietly, and with the day,
The night too will have its turn,
And all that will be left to say is:
I never had enough time,
To say I love you.

London Poem: Day 359

11 August

How well do hands recognize
The body?
A simple wander back and
Forth, a fumble here and there
Never did any harm,
But still,
In subtle ticks,
There is nothing to align
The wheels –
The world may have its axis,
But these hands have no
Base to set their world
At peace.

London Poem: Day 358

10 August

It’s a slow wane to end a year,
Nervous and full of hesitance
For what’s to come in the
Curling months of an unknown year.
What’s but another name to
Add to the many?
Too many logs on the fire,
They say, and there is much
Agreement, but the year is a
Wild one, surprising you
With every step.

London Poem: Day 357

9 August

The long drive,
Winding and twirling
In the unseen climbing sun,
Dulls a mind set in motion.
The day culls the words
You swim in, wading in soft
Sounds to spill into the
Road falling behind stays,
Distanced from the city
Calling in subtle sounds
Too soft to hear
As the wheels turn
Further for you.

London Poem: Day 356

8 August

The day is delicate,
And you move like
Thin fingers spread
Over untouched water;
The ripples open up with
A great rustling yawn,
Slow at first,
To sway with the rhythm
Of the day, already
Slipping safely away.
To forget the hours before –
The spring and the lay –
Prompts the mind to build
New fantasies as the gusts
Build new hunger.
Allow the world, in all its
Ignorance, to blind your
Eyes to the cold squeeze
Of the rolling days.