mundane
Leaving lines implicit in the barest greens,
And all my handiwork is there to fade,
Into the background but yet less,
Amidst the creeping things.
Among the silent gains upon the buttress of the sky,
Till all is naught and tall reeds lie:
My lines so fairly gone.
From bucket into stripes,
Steady on the pool becomes awash,
Machine without the pipes,
Heady smell wafts up-bove drying lips,
Like so the march persists each pane in tow,
Munitions stocked again - the paint will flow.
Making done of tasks,
More clarity when they are toppled,
A habit brick by brick to form,
Long roads to unknown places far.
A frantic search undertaken,
Should rightly span two rooms,
But more is pressing on the nerve,
And dumps the brain with much,
Hard dose of stern bewilderment,
It should be where it wasn't,
Unless I am the sorry cause,
But backtracking's too sad...
Oh there it is.
Within the trenches of my room,
The war mundane drags stubbornly,
"With this fine play we take the flank,
Clear every violent box and plank,
The floor, its ours! So clear and free..."
But merely they have taken to a deskspace-loom.
The orange and the yellow buzz belies,
The fury in the oven's glow untamed,
Which falls abated on the stalwart glass,
So circles it draws out in noxious wait,
A lion in a petty cage.
Tumble bumbled rumble,
A cyclic siphon sifting,
Speaks in spattered spills,
Mouths around a clustered cloth,
The time is leisurely to clock,
Departing at the same,
Returning plenty late,
But warmly dry.
The joys of stacking stack on stack,
Filling piles with scrambled thought,
The generous pen upon the page,
Lies flat upon the ceding pale,
The ink encumbered with a heavy toll,
Becomes a faithful squire,
Carries on my swift reply,
Away to estranged questioners,
Displaced through the time by this same means I lean upon.
Pearly teeth unspotless cleaned,
To shine a dying flashlight on the world,
Pale china hosting willy yellow flowers,
Not an image of decay but simply stain.
Polling friends,
Sprinkling a tiny bit of wit,
To brighten mundane enquiry,
In quest the day of bestest fit.
So many nicks,
Accumulate like bites,
The tiny pricks,
That draw a storied line,
The fallen licks,
That marble hands in time,
The velvet and affronted red,
That calls to me about the dead,
About the day that I should go,
So humbly live with this I know:
I never truly see it as it is,
But hardly glimpse upon the fate of all and pray,
Lord would I truly see and humbly live.
Oak banisters that turn two ways in passing,
Ascending at the others fall,
Within a ceaseless maze departing,
Truly zero sum enthralled,
Pore over cryptic clues remarking,
Ever span these winding walls.
Distant moon laid starkly on the blue,
Turning back its ever bearing forth,
Impotent strides fall deaf to pull it through,
The canvas of the sky with hollow mirth,
Turning back the same, running to the same,
It eludes thought to trounce upon the day.
Dents and austere shards upon the range,
A mottled mountain crammed into a cup,
Lines go soft and faces flatten as the clay,
In time a spoon, great gaia's thrall,
Grinds the mottled mountain to a dome,
Then to a cardboard cavity amidst,
A throng of friends worn down to cups the same.
The ever-whirr arises from the grave of sound,
Unfathoming from every plug,
Dripping off the hooks of sprawling wire,
Pervading like the hollow of a bad dream,
In unwilled passing fades to a subtle hiss.
The weave of linen sheets,
Reflects like dragon scales,
A network stretching out complete,
With rows of angular crescents in the small.
Rubbing out my face,
Until its blank and marks
Of weariness don't stretch,
But leave it still.
I am rendered a watcher
Of the day gone by,
My head in work so wonderful and tiresome.
Unfolding into empty space,
I populate a draw, a shelf, a room,
Each just slightly different from the last,
Slipping into place I hear the gears,
Interlocking in their familiar march.
Lop it off again, the mop,
Falls bitwise to the floor,
The clumps partitioning the crop,
Disjoint they scatter to the door.
Hoist a thing on dangling arms,
Hither to with concealed huff,
Puff the frigid swirls away,
To clear a path for boxes tough.
Pen and paper brewing,
Becomes obtuse and blackens,
Its still and so painfully wakeful,
Stirring but folds fog upon fog,
Until scattering the light to dimmer motes,
A task to be lengthily tolerated,
Culminating in an empty cup,
Fuller thought piercing to the rounded edge.
The noisy world around,
Collapses into deadened splashes,
Ripples at the donning buds,
Silicon meeting tides of sound.
Few scatter names fewer find their face,
In time I'll watch the silt collect,
Drift down and sit at last their peace,
For now I'll chase the wind and stretch,
My hands at glancing shadows of a name,
Yet know far more about their place,
Within the world: their standing and pursuit.
Shorn short I must purport,
Though truth-saith I am but,
Haired not woolen. And of the sort,
Encroaching to my nose's jut,
Well almost so but still unfurnished for the task.
Finally off my list,
Collecting dust that nearly turned to mist,
A billowing fog up like a stench,
From sitting tasks which had been benched,
But now the chirping birds of sweet release,
Flock to my arms and my ears please.
Quite the peculiar contraption, dare I note,
Found long in its rush beyond bespoke,
To steaming plates in every home,
To uncrinkle seams and lines that roam,
Upon the fabric 'till the metal scorch it into uniform.
Stacking up the heavy blocks,
Not high lest topple and come crashing,
Not low lest filling up each inch of space,
A heave and there just squaring up,
The stack ascends one block upon each block.
Sleepy arm when he's awake,
I wonder if it's better in reverse,
The fickle pangs of mortal limbs,
So frail yet all the mustered strength,
The hands to which we look to hold,
A world or better squeeze and scratch,
An inch within our fingers cracks,
To grab the rocks and clay with clay,
Whilst thinking of eternal things amidst,
The dust where we are struck with stars.
Speed shopping for the choice is quick,
The long bridge to disparate indecision,
Charred and marked in the bonfires licks,
I shall not stand an over-deliberation,
But dress myself in ease to pick.
Lines interseaming and overturning,
Stacking down to fractal criss-crosses,
Layered up to fit the form of figures,
Now playing dead to scare away the cold.
Taking time to reorganise,
My room for room, undustiness,
For from my youth I heard: be wise!
Clean up your space, don't leave a mess!
I feel a stir and the challenge rise,
For creatures find in piles a nest,
Too beckoned by the order I surmise,
The learnings of my youth are dressed,
Upon my shoulders now -
I hope the fabric's full.
Packing up my clothes,
So easy that it drew a sweat,
I pile on hope on hope I haven't
Forgotten yet a thing but check
Twice thrice and tick it off for sure.
Truly shorter lighter lasting,
Air is blasting on my ears,
The rain falls thickly now,
Slicks what was in the past already sluck,
But now its fanciful and free to stand,
Not drape nor find itself in knots,
Frames my face in different lines,
My nape less buried but in air.
Shopping in a nowhere store,
A far gone world beyond a screen,
Silent in its ever weighty expansion,
Until I hear the chatter of a far away tongue,
Perfect strangers who have given words,
For me to weigh and test their worth,
To hasten my departure from this realm,
My pockets sitting higher in my trousers.
Cleaning up a room,
To kiss the dust goodbye,
And truly have it swarm your face,
Off dusty wood and papers old,
Now sorted or to sit recycled,
Oh the air is clear again!
The space unpacked of all its grey!
A packaged parcel passed on by the postmen in their pristine vans,
What have you here? My very name address and oh!
I must be famous for someone to know my name and gift me this!
Alas it was just I who parted with a pretty penny,
Alas it was just I who petitioned the postmen now to post,
From out away in teeming warehouse,
From out beyond where I have known,
A packaged parcel passed along to find purchase and here preside.
Chunky jumper seaming into snugness,
The cuffs rolled up to hulking arm-guards,
The stylish neck a sudden visor in a suit,
Of flowing verdant copper armour,
To fend off frigid stabs and battered but
Never shattered for it's nimbler,
In its rolling stitches and interposing threads.
A school of turquoise fish in lines amass,
They dive into criss-cross cross-hatching cloth,
An ocean draping by the window pane,
Soaks all the pale and whitened walls in blue,
I've never seen them quite depart before,
I guess the sharks don't dally in their plane.
I haven't been in the attic for a while,
Nor today or yesterday,
Likely not tomorrow even for a smile,
For I say - I say good riddance,
To burrowed nuts and bolts with style,
Odd bits and boxes can stay hidden,
Neatly in great towering piles.
So much hair falls loosely to the floor,
Bunched up in hived off little cliques,
They giggle in their wavy waves,
They are at last free from my head,
To wander off to lands uncharted,
To meet their chauffeurs in yellow brightness -
Dustmen in their hardy suites,
Dustmen wearing diligence like fluorescent bands,
Off they go to lands uncharted.
Dentist-entist,
Cleans what's been missed,
Informs of cleanliness,
At least it's short - that is the list,
Of what to do for toothy bliss,
Dentist-entist.
Warm jumper on a windswept day,
So cold...
Just right...
Then boiling like a jolly frog,
On and on and off again,
Like all its bumbling rolls and seams,
It's fastened bumps and stretchy sleeves,
Go hot then cold then just quite right,
It pokes a tongue pink at the wind,
No sweeping casts it's warm embrace away.
Men with spiky beards,
Maybe one day I shall join their ranks,
For now I laugh with mountain goats,
My spiky hair an island not a sea.
I found a new way to sit on a stool,
A single quarter seated,
Three abseiling in the air,
And to level: I'm just kneeling,
With wood legs just right there,
Right behind me upside drifting,
On my calves - so please beware,
I like to wobble this stool neatly,
Until it clatters everywhere.
I wish to write a nonsense poem,
For I've reasoned through the day,
I've straightened out spaghetti code,
And wrinkled up my brain,
So now I shall describe the feeling,
Of misstepping on the stairs,
When all is dark and the well falls short,
A step from what you thought before,
Oh tumble up and over yonder,
Your sole stomps down and shin asunder,
At least it feels so in the night,
You lay there in a dazzled plight,
This misstep of an upward fall,
This hubris shattered as the glass,
This clattered mirror of the world,
That holds just one step many in your eyes.
Jumping is as jumping does,
A fun pastime to hop and fly,
From heel to floor - life's firm high-five,
Mechanical beyond the first onlook,
Subconscious as it is sublime,
To force the ground and feel it push,
Up to the sky and make you fly.
An inside day,
Roof firmly over head,
No leaks I'd hope,
Strong beams instead,
Tied to my desk,
Wrist full of lead,
I'm in the zone,
Enough's been said.
A cross-legged perch,
The seating position with a timer,
Counting down in fleshy clicks,
Time!!!
A foot falls half asleep.
Alas, farewell you trusty stead and friend,
How far we walked, how far we send,
Our merry little presence beyond,
Past stately trees and murky ponds,
To lands that bustle in the smoke filled air -
Oh, it stopped tingling.
The joy of bubbles rediscovered,
At popping and preserving: jubilation,
To look on perfect prisons suspended,
Holding in the melted colours,
Infusing them with curves and boundless roiling,
They seem to melt the light beside,
Entrancing it to bow and blend,
With colours 'till it paints the maelstrom with its brightness,
And halos the edge with specular shine.
Polka dot socks,
A bundle of warm,
Binding heat to feet,
To hold a firefly swarm,
Hot nettles and petals,
I speak loosely of form,
But all blurs to furs,
-well not quite but fabric adorns.
I hear a dulcet hum not my own,
But mechanical, embracing the air,
And wobbling like a beating heart,
That draws me close and beacons me to dearest sleep.
I close my eyes and see the black,
Then formless patterns in the dark:
Great jagged lines and rolling hills,
From deep beyond my formless thought,
My mind a theatre of disrupted lines,
That play the fool in checkered falls,
That tumble into swarms of light,
That fray great epics into seconds,
They echo at attentions call:
Bygone, bygone.
Oceans dress the window panes,
Bunched up and thrown,
Unfurled to soak the windowsills,
And all the room,
Is steeped in sea and lapiz blue.
Crazy hair,
Chucked up and wrapped up,
Haphazard but standing,
It holds little explosions at its feet,
Plumes that seem to best its atmosphere.
I am bitten by the cold today,
In pieces by the frosted fields,
Yet I'm carried on great shards of ice,
That bend halfway, and thud the ground,
I hide my chin, my hands within
A plastic sheet with zips and pleats.
Annoying tasks,
I see them seethe a little,
They don't like it when I do the things to be done,
You could even say that...
I'm ticking off the tasks.
Cooped up,
But we've each got more than enough,
Space, between us, bed and stuff,
Laid out, suitcases full bursting at the centre,
And we've packed down later.
Sorting through a jumbled mountain,
Making unjumbled piles my own,
And finding places for lasting things,
And finding exits for things to go,
Till the mountain is but simple hill,
And simple hill is but a mound,
And I've some mountains of my own,
Unjumbled mountains sorted now.
Glasses fit the cloudy gaze,
And lines are caught on whetstone firm,
I hear the slicing bladesong clear,
The sound of beautiful creation near,
And now the far I too grasp in my sight,
And thank the Lord my eyes discern.
Tinkered trying at a lock,
Not picking but unscrewing,
Not pinching but in view to fix,
A sagging handle weakly holding,
Alas, alas, the door has been hard nosed,
I cried to Internet he too was lost.
For I know little of the grubby screws,
So little of the things I need,
To convince the barring metal to unloose.