nevering

reinvention

after a few years resting....nevering is reinvented elsewhere:
http://neveringpoetry.blogspot.com

posted by Cathy @ 1:50 PM

the angels sing....

In the dark church
the angels are singing vespers
against the candle-lit gloom
and the tiny organ thrums the dark sound
as sweet as black treacle poured into a baby's mouth.

The dark sweet baby is a church of dreams,
it gets cradled against the candle-lit singing,
and makes the sound of angels
as if singing could be all that this abandoned building
needs to hold itself up and against the world
keep its mouth thrumming.

posted by Cathy @ 10:30 PM

A Walk in the Rain

Rain filled my boots and bubbled through the top stitching.
I'm describing symbolic light in puddles, verse, paint and light itself,
just by being here, now the sky is clutered with metaphor.

As I walked through the rain I listened to the thrashing music of my heart.
Soon became a lake in the road, with yellow leaves floating,
and as the wind stilled so there seemed to be a spreading map.

All this time walking, the same route, the same houses,
but lately I've noticed the rain falls most swiftly right here,
in the verancular fork in the road, marked with bird blood.

*

Just when I know, there isn't any bubbling truth so it is the light
is well-versed and gets puddled into remembrance,
the sky embracing yet another filled-in painting of cluttered rain.

There is a map with so many musical lakes, it seems walking
is the only way to still the heart, to listen to the road.
Spreading the moment, like so many leaves becoming yellow.

I've made a fork out of swiftly fallen homes.
It's only now that I see the blood of vernacular routes and veins,
the same marks of time, as I walk with my dreaming bird.

posted by Cathy @ 1:02 PM

Turquoise Hearts

I looked up and saw the wash of turquoise light,
the people of the land all killing themselves softly,
mixtures of gentlemen smoking their hearts,
the light diminishing, glowering in the corner of my eye.

I mixed the gentlemen into smoke, love,
they came into the light and glowed, and killed.
It was enough for them that mixed up lands can corner light,
if you look up now you'll see the diminished soft turquoise.

posted by Cathy @ 3:41 AM

branch, twig, root

this is not for us
how trees give themselves up
in such a rapture of sunlight
the trees untree
find again their frame
make do with
the medieval skills
the melancholy air
of being branch
twig
root

posted by Cathy @ 2:02 PM

glam it up

P1010044
Originally uploaded by acrossandtwokisses.

in an effort to give this blog a bit of eye-candy.... here's a passion flower, photographed today, quite extraordinary to have this still blooming in late October.

posted by Cathy @ 2:15 PM

Women Pour with Rain

Rain as a music box,
the story of a lost doll with no eyes,
these are the words you remember:
lazy, hazy, chilly-willy weather oh

singing as if it matters,
raindrops getting so big the size of your tongue,
you are shrinking in sunlight,
shrinking as the music dries.

Listen, the music box is crying:
women pour with rain as they stitch their aprons.
Lots and lots of tiny hammers to knock her up,
little bits of magic getting stuck between notes.

Found bits of dreams in the side-seams,
rain stains on the doll's dress,
left out again, lazy, hazy, silly doll.

posted by Cathy @ 2:07 PM

Night Sweats of the Misunderstood Man

Infact he had nothing, except fantasy.
Others could hear the swish of his tail, the nails
as they scraped along the ground.
There was something unconvinced about his soul
as if it had an ever-mutating shape
and could walk out and come back at will,
come back with little bits missing,
unhelpful attachments, mangled edges.

He was living for the next drama.
Nothing could be someone and everyone
would one day be very glad to have known him,
but for now he was simply misunderstood.

Seldom a dreamer, but when he did he dreamt
of women who never spoke, the mindless beauty
how she could lap dance all over him.
His life a cruel joke. He bought himself broke.
He ate her raw, just because
and not because it pleased her.
Never his own fault, never sorry,
on, on, to the next..... a dash of smile,
a pulled-in tum, gladly stepping into the next scene,
the ringmaster of his own little circus act.

posted by Cathy @ 12:41 PM

taping the earth

the composer
makes live calculations
taping the earth
for its beauty

the perimeters of leaves
armfuls of the golden brittle leaf of sunlight

he records the sound
of the earth slowly falling

faced with a distant glancing eye
of winter

the trees sing their hollow songs
so merrily
as if they could fly high away

and the composer he knows
so he pushes his microphone into the earth
and he tries to listen into God

as if he might
find a sound of love
and God calling him in each
flicker of leaf

scratch-scratch
mr composer
sing us a tune
in white noise, in crimson
in a great bonfire of leaves
and became again

posted by Cathy @ 6:51 AM

tiny birds (in progress_

little birds on string
light of being
pushed, l

looking, hop, skip,

join the branches, twig to twig
to brittle song,

all that is meant

energy of secrets

posted by Cathy @ 2:17 PM