midlife

When you cry alone in bed Flat upon your back The tears run back into your eyes And sting you again As if to remind you That it's your own fault.

Tree spirit.

Again and again, however we know the landscape of love 
and the little churchyard there, with its sorrowing names,
 and the frighteningly silent abyss into which the others 
fall: again and again the two of us walk out together
 under the ancient trees, lie down again and again
 among the flowers, face to face with the sky.

Please ponder

around the edges and in the cracks snuffling slithering in yellow tongued and slightly nauseous count the hour of sin watery eyes and purple veined skin like waxy plastic chalk finding ways to speak the horror finding ways not to talk slipping from a flexible structure into random lumps of soil waiting for the soup to thicken a-bringing to the boil

Its not the music that opens the gate Of grief, its not the song. Nor even the weeping tune I wont be long Its the note A minor deity Keening in my ear Sliding in like vinegar worm A-noseing in my beer Its not the story that frees the beast Of anger, its not the rhyme Not the words that tear and shred I need some time Its the letter of intention That begins and never ends It issues and demands That we stay forever friends. Even in the deepening fear, When dark retreats, reveal the cracks In shadow on the boathouse wall. Its not that Its the severing of contact A breaking of the deal The vicious look and turn away Eye spoked upon a wheel Gather them together, The song, the tale, the gut Put them in a great black pot And coldly boil them up And at bottom, when all is done A glint of loving gold To rise through all domestic scum And practice being old I cry not for me or mine Not for you or yours My tears are universal brine With salt to salve the sores.

More photos on photobucket if you are interested... http://s963.photobucket.com/albums/ae119/Stibble/Artifact/