not really fond of capitals

when I think of it, I'm not so fond of capitals -
okay, maybe a couple, maybe half a dozen
at the most, there's home of course, goes without saying,
and some more around the mediterranean

but not those shouty ones that stand guard with their arms
at attention before each stanza, each sentence,
why must they be so strict about marking the start?
is it so clear always - the beginnings and ends?

do you know where this thought stopped and that one rose
like a mist from the waves? the horizon and sea
merge so often into one, but in any case
one's fluid and the other's imaginary.

go look for the end, there's no clear line in the sand
just a band of wetness between the sea and land.

Fresh new eyelids

Somewhere in a river of red Sundays,

in thick drifts of January headlines,

somewhere in black boxes of old crosswords,

perched nervous on a taut wire of sunshine,

I’ve waited for you to give me back my mind.

Somewhere in yellowed photograph albums,

in a million cracks of brittle glassine,

staring at the six-faced dies of mind games,

turning the wheels of dead mundane routine,

I’ve waited for you to tell me what you mean.

The years fall like petalled rain on fingers

and both my hands and eyelashes are wet.

On the highway piled up sullied winters.

You’re still out shooting, eyeballs on target,

but no more waiting, I’m primed to forget.

Eyelids are woven so they’d be drip-dried,

strength’s a dragon kite flying at its own will.

I’ve torn up all the rivers and cracked glassine

and forced the boxes open, dies to spill.

You’ll be in sometime. I’ll be quite civil.

And I’ll claim back each of the shot Sundays,

and every blank box on the crossword grid,

rake back each ribbon of hijacked mindspace

and weave myself a pair of fresh, new eyelids

and brush off all that you did, and undid.

Write...Edit...Publish : January 2014, New Beginnings

Nothing that can't be broken.  Take it as it comes.  Let it go and let it be.  Those have been my NY resolutions for pretty much every year for the last decade or two. 

The past year’s been more good than bad – writing-wise and otherwise, chockfull of changes, of milestones.

Cracked

The door’s open a crack

a scoop of light shows
where to hook the toes
on limits to be pushed back;
hinges open close
along circular tracks;
facepalm maniacs
stand in straightened rows;
the trees’ stripped rib-racks
pant against the windows;
golden faun shadows
stalk aphrodisiacs.
The season’s in death throes -
the knots of zodiacs
tighten up the slack
disguised as ribbon bows.
But then, the rest is black.
But then, no-one knows
what’s there in the hollows
behind twisted almanacs.....