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.

London Poem: Day 355

7 August

The wild trudge is wrapped in darkness,
Climbing continuously until fatigue
Sets in and the road runs out.
The gentle curve folds into itself;
The tiny peek of daylight sniffing
Out the night chases the young ones
To bed with a stumble.
Before, curiously, narrow squinted
Eyes pry through little branches in
The darkening night, and life became,
Or so it seems, a quaint twinkly
In the tiny cat’s eyes reflecting
Down from on high.

London Poem: Day 354

6 August

Collide and forget, a blind
Eye and rolling on in the
Fine sweeping understanding
Signaled by a shake, and a nod.
This is the way we get on by,
Becoming and ignoring without
Knowing why, counting on the
Expenses of others to satisfy
What is lacking in our own life,
It is ugly as the sun glows,
An explosion in the sky,
With the promise of a storm
In the air.

London Poem: Day 353

5 August

The crisp and crackle, shattered
Under foot, erase sullen angels,
Made so many seasons ago.
Their names, forgotten in some book,
Balance between tongues before they fall,
And disappear, without a word.
These dreams, to build faces for fallen
Grace is a sin, lodged in the pages
Of a holy book, hoping in seasons to come,
You may stir upon their lovely names.