modicum

beach sand
Photo by Josh Sorenson on Pexels.com

 

He studied her blanks, his heart a magnifying glass as he carefully copied out each jot that filled the lens. He often sat back, in surprise and wonder, sometimes awe, sometimes astonishment. Sometimes, sadness, that could not be expressed in any current language, he mourned.

He didn’t have enough colours. But the poetry, brought him to his knees.

remember…

when I was walking around trying to avoid the mosquitoes and you strummed your guitar to the rhythm of my steps and the syncopated clouds confused you and we said it was the best thing you had ever written?

Got no regrets,
except I wish we had recorded it.

Oh,
and that I wish you were here with me…

why don’t I get you?

Perplexed
and kneading
this air with my thoughts,

desperate
to soften
the impact from fraught-

ed years
of unconversation,
now hurling at speeds

alarming,
non sensical,
vengeful misdeeds

of mishearing.

I watch
syllables peeling,
disarrayed.

Natatorial surprise –
those little ________ can swim
in the blues of my mind…

 

This song popped up and I love how Anne-Marie covers it. I had to write¬†something…

She loved this dream.

Well, not at first.

First there was terror, terror as the engine stalled. Right above the middle of the ocean. And there were loved ones on board, asleep and unaware of the rolling waves. Waves voluminous with the sinister of the blackest galaxies…

Waking with the resolutionary tearing of fabric, she froze herself in the dive, the dive into the two dimensional whirlpool. The whirlpool of her own pencilled colours, symphoning themselves into place.

The green and the blue.

 

(I’m posting this song again, because I love it, and my brain seems to like how it messes with it)

Finally…

Sept 2006 053

she nourished that patch

with those flammable tears,

from jagged tears

and all that bares,

streaming arrears

the chanting of years’

mourning.

 

 

She returned in the blink of a decade,

no warning,

taken aback

by perpetual dawning

of the quiet hymn

of the rose.

 

(A lovely musical interlude by a lovely man).

in the morning light

He flicked the ash out of the car window, and she knew that was the signal for her to continue. He thought he was good at pretending to listen, but she knew. When he did those long exhales he was thinking about something else, probably the zombie in his dream last night, the one distilled from the mirror that devoured him in slow motion, record time.
But she had sat on the floor, taking notes on her typewriter, writing him back into existence.

Damn, how he loved her.