games
Lizards in neat suits,
Play out a little game,
Hushed as in cahoots,
Impressing as if tame,
The night so dimly tucked,
Swallows flooding heat lamps:
The game is 'bruptly up,
They scatter from the camp.
When squaring up the deck,
The frantic packets fall in line,
Arising from some kind of pit,
Springs order and a peaceful height.
At home in so much noise,
The mess of play and laughter's oil,
My people, O, your people!
Such cobbled gift which overfills,
Designs too wonderful,
Make happy saints from every walk.
I never thought a slice of tree,
Would fill my heart with such a glee,
But here a dawn of artistry,
A world to tame and newly see,
The figures and the games flow hence,
The dancing hands with such cadence.
I'm finding fun with you my kin and friends,
Deep at the bottom of all childhood dreams,
All pools and safe-depths conquered to each inch,
Perhaps we'll try some cards down here in the,
Unfriendly unders - we'll bask in cyan rays,
Such speckled lights upon our frozen glares,
Deep in the balance of the air and careful hands.
A kind of scattered rank,
So gathered but in more a swarm,
Cohesion with a flash of bubbling,
A tumble here a tackle there,
The dives: the watching through dim goggles,
The rank affirmed until we wash up shattered.
Abstract armies flagged in white,
Contending with dark vestiges,
Advance and posture break into,
A fearless march to someone's death.
Colour fails in this stark game,
Played out in agonising thought:
In every blink ten million years,
In every year ten million blinks.
There is no blood in this foul war,
No mortal men or fiend-stung troops,
No blades or cries beneath fanfare,
But humble stones and empty space.
A hollow world untamed and deathly sparse,
An illquiped will untamed and deathly sparse.
The evening sun does lazy glance - a side
Glance dragging all the outside world through the
Old sagging glass, which through it brushes wide,
Into acrylic peaks and dimples painterly.
The world is washed in veiled light's malaise,
The shadows of a broad humanity,
Find archetypes so deep within a phrase,
An integrated loss beside a triumph lofty.
The spatter of a dying amber lines
The gold. And starkly in the setting sun,
A play, a dance of melody, the games,
Too dear to be confined to meagre words.
The world I'd love to share,
Gives tactile form to fantom gears,
Like clockwork rendered with a pen,
All its life is both so you and yet transcends,
You're ever facing reason in so grand a match:
The folly and the wisdom,
The roadblock and eureka,
The apprehension and abandon,
It seems too strange and yet rings true,
That I am just myself but so estranged in these deep games.
Beanbags lounging in the lazy sun,
Mundanely cascade into a misplaced cheer,
Too valiant, maddened for this sleepy sky,
Pulling tight the eyes to joyful little creases.
An ordered scattering of cards,
To madness heralding the end,
When all the jig is up votes descend,
And through cracked lips pronounce us merry fools,
Flocking in their every feather,
Perching, leaning close together,
Gathered while the night is young and sleep too hard.
A memory lane,
Piled up with games,
With all the rounds therein,
Laughs and tears in every win,
Time well spent on family.
With a splash, the pool unveiled,
In pleasant warmness cook the pale,
Cold lines from right besides my eyes,
Under the sun and otherwise,
It's fun and games with those I see,
Just here last year and likely three,
We'll dive and fall and fire off rockets,
Dry off and cast off all my pockets,
The games within to scatter to the carpets whims.