Monday, 25 October 2010

A Simple Declaration

Saturday 23rd October 2010, A. Palmer


A simple haiku,
Written because I'd like to
Declare I like you.




This Chair Can Be Throne Away

Thursday 21st October 2010, A. Palmer

He sits upon his creaking throne-
Quiet, thorn-faced, his sturdy frame regressing on its own.

The unmaimed messenger had left through a side door;
The completed exit was still echoing along its dusty tour,
Ringing off crevices to fill the void left by the words, only four

But none more assassin-like could ever enter one’s head:
By the second, he had known what further two were ahead,
And had turned so as to try to avoid the stab all would dread-
Short pause, as long as a lifetime, before, “your son is dead.”

He had bore pleadingly into the other’s eyes, longing for a sign
That a mishearing had occurred somewhere along the line
Or along the three feet of desk, or perhaps the two combined.
But it had not been present, only one who dared not recline
Nor rise to rash urges to opine.

They had waited to be dismissed, some wait given the shock they’d had to air
And try as they might, there had been little they’d been able to prepare
To cushion the collapse of his resolve when the disbelief became despair
So they had left unnoticed whilst telephone, intray and tears crashed everywhere
Before all fell deathly still, save for closing door and creaking cathedra, or chair-
Kingdom crushed like a child beneath a car, it’s no throne without an heir.




Haiku for the Crab

Wednesday 20th October 2010, A.Palmer


Sweet smirks turn sour-
He must be getting tired,
Choosing fewer words

Still means an hour
For thoughts to be transpired,
Broken into thirds.

Must be the cancer,
I sit helpless as it feasts:
Dreaded spreaded crab.

*

Now he won't answer.
Less pain when asleep at least,
Even on a slab.




Tuesday, 19 October 2010

Cometment

Monday 18th October 2010, A. Palmer


The moon blinked, and missed a comet flash across the velvet fill.
We did not and watched its solitary mission from atop a hill
Whilst the heath slept soundly beneath our gaze.
Without warning, courage hitched upon the back of blue trail blaze
And taking my chance without a breath:

      I did ask her to marry me.

Thoughts soon thinked before that comet is seen around these parts-
Not least before the beating ceases within our own hearts.
But as flesh does flake, our everlasting love does soar
Like the comet we watched, as it returns once more
Following a thousand years without a breath:
   

      Another does ask his to marry he. 




Friday, 15 October 2010

The Answer

Friday 15th October 2010, A. Palmer

‘Turn that up, I like it,’ she said at last.
I did so as if I would die for her.
Then those tears began to splash against her makeshift socks,
I didn’t know what to do so I cried too.

‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘I thought this was in the past’.
I said, ‘doesn’t look as though you’re laughing’.
Silence fell, so did I as I laid lips against laboured locks-
I could make a bed of that hair but it’s not mine to.

Where do you go when you’re on the edge?
Do you turn back or do you jump?
We leapt but the fall was further than we thought,
The hope we’d hit the ground running is what we hung on to.

But now we both watch tequila trail to a worn lime wedge,
And those sweet smiles turn to tears to provide the salt.
It’s hard to watch a love fall away when you’re still caught-
It’s hard when those tears are falling not for you.

If Life can be likened to one life-long lesson,
Then I guess there’s no line between teacher and pupil.
And once you’re chosen you don’t get to choose at all
The bad days make the good days great and sure,

I don’t have the answers and when I do, I forget the question
All I know is, for her, I don’t mind losing
Because if that means she wins, I never really lose at all-
Suppose that’s the answer I’ve been looking for.




The Writer and The Artist

Tuesday 10th August 2010, A. Palmer

After the storm has died
You can’t look at me nor speak.
Though the thunder may subside,
The rain still wets your cheeks.

There’s an urge to forgive and unite at the lips,
But films tell me not to respond.
So whilst my hands grip my hips,
Yours wipe your lashes black to blonde.

Shall I leave? Sit on the roof?
If I did, I’d want you to follow.
I see you searching for lies in my truth-
When you’re so full of doubt, you’re so hollow.

You shake with your fury; I’m still with mine,
Dreaming of dead days when you were fonder
And expired evenings when we’d lovingly entwine.
In the crackling silence I ponder:

What’s to love about Love and adulation?
All it does is break hearts in half.
And whilst I write our reconciliation,
You paint your “fuck off”.

This has been the worst one yet-
It’s dangerous getting comfortable.
You lose the will to impress and forget
That you’re in graver danger when you’re stable.

But all of this is a waste on a scale far too grand:
The wrong kind of passion dictates us two.
So tell me what to do, tell me where I stand-
Tell me I’m still stood with you.

Almost scared to finish what we’ve started,
We should be revelling in what we’re building,
Not joining forces to get us parted,
Frightened that later a deeper love will sting.

Although storms will brew the art is
To never let lightning strike twice, so let’s try-
Because Ellie’s writer and the artist:
You know that that is you and I.

And we know clouds don’t stay forever,
We know the sun shines through.
So I’ll wish upon the rainbow we uncover
That if I have to survive a storm or two

Then I survive them with you.




Thursday, 14 October 2010

Greater Expectations

Thursday 14th October 2010, A. Palmer


Contemplating, poor and pale, picking up his pen'll
Make them wait in for the mail from his kennel-
Working his way up through smells of first, disgust,
Second, discontent,
And finally, roses
And finish by filing things through the rings of a string of posies,
He supposes
But supposing leads to greater expectations.




Wednesday, 13 October 2010

Two Wars Rage

16th January 2009, A. Palmer

Two wars rage:
One in sand.
And one in her heart.

The second war is by far the worse.
Worse than shells of metal leaving shells of life.
No objection to the strife of the first,
But it is worse nonetheless to be a wife.

She stands with an iron, as grey as the walls outside a window.
It’s cold today but her heart burns.
The clouds move clumsily, tumbling and sucking sky as though
They want to cry for her in turns.

The television tells of another fallen with a sobriety respectful, but removed and preened.
Pictures flicker in the face of Grace of a box draped in Jack’s colours: blue, white and red.
She lurches for the Off button, frantic for Grace not to see such scenes.
But Grace doesn’t see; Grace fingers with heart-breaking ignorance the toys Daddy brought with him the last time instead.

She stares at the clock for the third time in nine minutes,
Noting how that first second takes an age to land.
She wills it never to arrive, to retreat, implores for Time to remit.
Her heart skips. Then so does the hand.

She bites her lip to suppress the tears and glances down at Grace.
Like intuition, Grace is already looking at her with a comfort in her eyes beyond her years.
Those eyes! They barrack a smile that evokes a sudden embrace
And glint with a softened masculinity and a warmth to effortlessly ward off fears.

She has seen those eyes a thousand times’ before in another’s sockets.
She has rejoiced in those eyes, wept at those eyes too,
And struck them once for straying towards another woman’s rear pockets.
Now they lie closed in a box on television, draped in Jack’s colours: red, white and blue.

Two wars rage:
One in sand.
And one in her heart.
For her, both are lost.




Coffee

24th March 2010, A. Palmer


Every morning sees boiling water poured upon cool, arid crumbs of clay
And once the steam clears to reveal that day’s strength too much or few either way,
Marvels at how the pungent vapours are enough to send the creator shooting next door,
Where he disposes of the skipped breakfast, fast lunch and burnt supper of the day before.

Half asleep, he welcomes the icy seat
And sits until his thighs are numb-
Contemplates needless snippets of retreat
Until he returns to a mug as earthly cold as his feet
And flicks the kettle again with an unwashed thumb.




Soar Point Ponderings #39

10th May 2010, A. Palmer


Sitting alone is not a worry;
Rather, it's a comfort-
Notice more, look beyond, some thought,
Like how my posture is weak,
How I make more sense if I do not speak
And how crass the sofas are in here- a flurry

Of misguided stripes and veloured twee.
Perhaps it is intentional;
Perhaps I do not get it- the joke is invitational.
So I sit uninvited and surrounded by
Idiotic invitees with loud laughs from paltry wits, why
It is times like these I am glad I get on with me.



Young Love's Lament

23rd June 2009, A. Palmer

Childhood sweethearts:
An expression that may induce a bath by the warm fuzz of June sun
Whilst nostrils twitch tickled by cut grass on the ground.
Or mould postcards in the mind of lovers entwined on starry nights,
Of defenseless water fights and unspoken talks
And stalled walks home the long way around.
Yet that’s what we were.
And that’s what it was.
You’d giggle to be polite and I’d peek down your top every second I was able.
We’d lock lips everywhere from abandoned extensions to rugby conventions,
Through wrought iron fences and other cities and dimensions
- Not to mention during that after-school detention for disabling the power cable.
Other times, it was simply behind your mother’s back and on the kitchen table.
Listen to this song, it reminds me of you/ us/ this time/ that time/ delete as applicable.
We were stable.


But as I write, you think I’m wrong again.
The door complains that you didn’t shut it properly,
And the man across the street watches unashamedly
As your car tries to catch up with your frustration waywardly.
When you disappear from view, his concern-cloaked curiosity switches to me, but I stare down.

I watch the ink embrace with tears
And wonder what has changed since those bygone years.
                Nothing.
And that’s the problem;
I was the best thing to enter your life when I was sixteen and sauseflem.
Today, whilst my complexion is less so, our love is more burdensome:
Indeed, sweetheart, we’ve become too accustomed.
Alas, my coat summons; I’ve outstayed my welcome.




Friday, 8 October 2010

Winter Looks

Wednesday 6th October 2010, A. Palmer

Through a window of steam and moaning punctures,
A tangle of rushing blood in stolen junctures
Writhes as though snared on tenterhooks.
Far from familiar, gentler fucks,
They forget their own and one another's
And bury deep in roles of moonlit lovers.
As a foreign pang of pleasure flunctures
With a rising guilt they work to smother,
They're safe for now- no one but Winter looks.




Hand Paint in Black

Thursday 4th February 2010 (for LNH), A. Palmer

I like to watch you paint-
Whirling wonder, lash the linen duck with the love I lack,
Lost in the strings of the song in our night-time hearts,
Hand paint in black.

Wishing it could be anything it ain’t,
I’ll stand against a thousand hours’ work at the back:
Modestly flawed to you, but masterpieces to me-
Hand paint in black.

We’re not bad, simply sinning saints.
Colours and words could run but one’s enough to make us crack
As I decide one day like this a year’d see me right.
Hand paint in black.

You’re perfection I’ll only taint
But the way you create a whole new world for me, such a knack-
I could watch you for a lifetime because my soul bares a handprint:
Hand paint in black.