a good poem

one when
no one shall bend my ear to your recourse the voice of course is morse
(but not mine)
in sea I find the memory mine not yours but mine
not yours but mine!
won’t you let me out?

keep me here:
I found wax inside your ears and bent them in to fill my doubt with
hotter sounds:

my out is here no clout but sere
the memory of drifting weeds and further south:

my own my voice no one else’s
it’s life
it’s buried in the hot love
underneath the burial ground itself is our only palpably sounded
mouth
sound the mouth with sonar and with doubt and stretch its edges so we
can know
the redoubt of our mathematics
still spinning round our thrumming castle of being:

More at http://www.robindunn.com.

This is not being on a verge
nor a void, nor precipice
but sitting on a hedge
or on a languishing hill
I tether, get gooseberries.

All outside is loneliness.

Cool
Crisp
Gray
Somber but not depressing
Dogs have been walked
First mine
Then the neighbor’s hound
Spending a few days with us

The beauty and splendor of the early morning
No sales and bargains here
I’ll take it
Coffee brewing
Alone in my thoughts
Good times

Why so hard, he asks
his eyes
seeing through my heart
searing into my soul

he looks just like
Dad the
bad parts, with little left
lost and hurting

each drop of sad
echoes so
my ears get stuffed
and bad dreams wake me

tangled and tired
from swimming
against the tide
tied to a past
my health rebuts
refuting all but a
random scar
or two
remain

the kind make up never conceals
compassion may reveal

In tuneful rhetoric
as I watch the
changing wind
I speak to the north,
south, east and west
and follow the path
the direction leads me

Over the scarlet
crimson mountains,
the burnt orange
tree poses and sun
glaring stirs that
wallow in the breeze

The summer ends
flatly
We stretched it
out forever and
ever until it
finally stopped and
the seasons grace
us poetically with
glows of sunsets and
luminous leaves,
hurricanes raining
and pushing
until we turn our
case over once
more to the
whistling wind
and the full moons
that bewilder us
into uncertainty

It is more than orange
and yellow put together.
This explosion of warmth
and feeling
fire-working my emotions,
serotonin my brain.
I can taste it,
overwhelmingly…
it’s like… buttery Magic!
Don’t you dare stop smiling
or I’ll tickle you.
Please, tell me again
the reason for Everything.

More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.