on fighting a stormy position at sea
a bird called from a stone promontory
my haste and sweat with sail and oar left me
equipped to live and tell you this story
soft looked eyes above ruby red stained full beak
evil magic trapped this girl in feathers
her fragile webbed feat chained to stone where bleak
weather froze her blood and hardened feather
in that tempest my shirt and sail all torn
arms left feint from exertion agony
her call a draw not cawl but a lovers song
and I pulled oar in a sense mutiny
smashed into rocks. splinters. boat no more
bloodied and cold . resolve spent.she one wing
bent to prevent me slipping off the shore
I found in her shelter some words to sing
carry me high and we can sweetly nest
or perhaps a kiss this curse will arrest
bee sings so pleasantly around a buttercup
resting place a stop and a sup
a field of tiny suns swing to the beat
children making chains pick them up
smatter of yellow under a friends chin
and in lines the butter lovers gather up
petals square on four make a cross
rely on thin green line to hold them up
colours Buzz the air all mellow
a bee passing by backs that up
Earnest at sea
A dinghy battled it's best against the wave. Bow different to stern without a right side to speak of. An old man muttered over one side understanding that the fish might listen and certain St. Peter was not. The boat managed to creak a reply.
Other times lines sang in the wind trailing the vessel . There was song aboard and the oars shared too. These days watching lines with cataract eyes had to give way to dragging nets thrown over ... the bad side. Battered from decades of tie up to piers the edge is as uneven as a graveyard with the smoothness of a loved head stone . Appropriate dead fish came on board over it.
Hauling in again for today. The sun faded polypropylene tightened in it's twist. The rope grey, green and brown where the knots tied to make rhombuses lay in his hands. His fingers swollen at the joints looked like sides of the diamonds cut from the net. Bones forced set angles where joints swelled like lumps in cords. They might unravel in the dark one day. But on fishing days they would tighten being impossible to untie.
A creak of knots and it was cast again in the lake. Ernest sat down watching the plastic play out after the sinking weighted organic fibres. The blue synthetic after the brown now lost to the dark beyond the dregs of reflected day. Tempted to sing
"out to sea my baited beauty
hey ho haul in silver bounty
boys turn to me
boys turn to me
count on board the fishes"
He did not count. Did not sing . Instinct ruled grief and then tie off . Row a ways pull the nets in some internal conversations that drifted into dreams and recall. The past when hands like his, with his, but younger and unbound . Lifted him and the lines from under to over and into the boat. All shifting the number of caulked boards wet and those clinkered dry .
The days brightness gave out to a reflection of fish scales. The setting light defining the grey underbelly of Pisces some-place above. His boat is lower in the water. The end of day in this boat with his boys then rolled up like a herring fillet. Them 5 to 25 years age. Him a permanent old man seen by dead fish eyes. Bodies younger and at least one of his boys alongside singing over the good side while making small string nets. Knots he had taught them.
The net felt heavier hauled in whilst the boat rose in the water.
A fish thrashed at his feet and with useless hands it became both untangled and a temporary part of the sky. Diamonds on hands cracked the destiny and love. Rings around thumbs tallied the hauls. One hand shielded the glare so Ernest could see enough to power his bones home.
Somebody or some kindness pushed a strong wind into his back. He named it sacrifice .
throng of birds in song
beat their wings and
the wind sings
a hundred names only
aviators can know
hollow shafts hold the
softest Kerstin to
crack open gigatons
in spirals that swoop
in hoops around a dirty
globe washes itself in
of sky shaken to puddles
between roosts of choirs
robin my blood
oh robin in the tree
one beady eye on me
for the black bug
wings wrapped snug
on leaf of the Lilac tree
under which we drink our tea
to my eldest I turn
and a story is born
dear child keep strong
sing loud and long
yon robin has proud chest
for he sang without rest
to save a princess
It's true. for once the bird was dour
lived in Royal ground. Feathers brown
singing to please the princesses crowd
until. Horror. Illness. Proclaimed loud
'Princess was dying having lost
love for life broken hearts cost'
little bird he loved with all his heart
and by her window a song did start
inside in a week sickly state
to her beat did the tune relate
and morbid promise was made
that it was to be her final refrain.
the bird sang through the day
and through the night. stay
by her and steady stave
no food or drink did it crave.
For on that wooden sill
a dirty splinter a thorn ill
pressed ever closer into chest
of that songbird that took no rest.
slowly the blood began to seep
and single flow set to creep
along the ledge up to edge
of drop onto sickly hair
shocking the poorly girl sitting there
her eyes filled with pity for another
that song of love from red chest cover
over fidelity, hope, courage and caring
that lifted her to desire life sharing.
A rush of her own blood carried her
to pull that splinter from the feather
stained forever red
for a life, by love, led.
'Load a Bllx Dad'
polis does not please
Beyond bewildered that one of class
empowered by playing politics.
Dare now to claim ground so far distance
from democratic vote as good practise .
Rule; a shameful parade dressed in colours
and ideology popular hued
resplendently stained by party failures
to engage despite pressed powers used.
Influence from Baron's of paper print
devoted to preserving the city state.
Machiavelli and power of the prince
Used against democracy as vile hate
That we demos, the people, maintain
the laws that protect as one, the same