cliff edge 1

Within his tavern of imaginings, out of body looking further outwards
indulgence his shy waitress serving up a comedy of realities
actualities that would censure his each and every manipulation

Dreamlands purple anecdotes a sometimes painkiller save for
when The Master of Suspense visits unannounced, then all is
a mere twisted and spoiled incidental lecherous laundry list plot
Returning to loves dawn he turns back the clock, visualises her one last time
sat there as if only yesterday, kicking off her weather fagged sandals
such lovely legs dangling over a ‘crumble in your hands’ chalky cliff edge
so very high above the sea anemones and their tide pool stamping grounds
“Such a long way down, too much time to think if I were to fall” a passing thought
her mood changing with the weather, grumbling grey gout ridden clouds
hailstones and illusions determining that counting one’s losses prior to loss
as a bad habit except for when an outcome is as plain as the nose upon her face
By the time he had left she was ensconced indoors sat knitting a lone spare stocking
beside a dying hearth, enter the slovenly Tom cat and it felt like home once more
Tom cat had been on the missing list for several weeks, puts down her needles and wool
a cup of tea quest overdue, not before a witless dance of petulance for the
watched kettle that never boiled, wonders whether it is life or love that is a foreign thing?
had he been about he would have answered, “Both” she guessed
for she had unremittingly been the bookends keeping safe his word
Were he not away prospecting for golden flakes he may have been of some use
yet his opulent eyes always on the lookout for more, more, forever more
It seemed only proper the ringers tolled a peal of six wedding bells, those bells sat atop
the ‘once a house of worship,’ as of now most secular of crematoriums for posterity’s sake
this being the closest he would ever get to fulfilling a vow made back when the hermaphrodite daffodil flaunted its come hither treasures, blew its own canary yellow trumpet in the company
of a kindred montane pastures indistinguishable ensemble
‘Returning to love’s dawn he turns back the clock’ certain in the knowledge
that within the macrocosms fraternal twin there is no such thing as fiction



    1. Good point although plainly not in my mind when writing this…you have just given me that self same jolt…that newsreel is imbedded within. How helpless the watcher can be…truly shocking day and one, like with JFK (and I was just a kid then) I could tell exactly where I was and what I was doing when evil struck.

    1. Cheers…still can only get to you on my blog via the post itself, not the comments bit on the right hand side although I have no trouble with your own blog. Could be divine intervention I suppose! Have a fine festive season and New Year by the way.

  1. Excellent writing indeed. Great but disturbing picture. (Clockwork cliff one I mean … not the one in the pub!!) Where do you do your writing ? Also … Why did the photographer not replace their cup in the saucer ?

    1. Ah good point…you see I hate my picture being taken. My wife had popped outside for a swift drag leaving cup and saucer divorced and took a snap of me on the way back in…the cheek of it I say! As to writing I usual get whatever few good ideas I get over a glass of red of an evening then off to the PC the next day…in dreamland that would be perfect, in reality, like my poetry it can be hit and miss.

      1. Yes … women can be tricky like that. I have just downloaded a sample of your anthology. Yes, it was me.
        I would like to do a feature about you and your book on my Writers Den site. Would that be OK ?

    1. John Denver in his youth and before his untimely death used to say, ‘Far out’. I see the author of Far Out Brussel Sprout is into her Vegemite also. I am a great fan of said Vegemite as it happens…on toast with poached eggs!

      1. Always educating me on poignant people amongst history, and contrasting them with your personal taste ie breakfast menus, thank you Mike!

  2. Hargraves Blues
    Hargraves Blues

    No obstacles in the physical realm can stop the
    Flow of fix or ruin. One bicyclist, content to move
    In limited space, dodges traffic, kicks her stand
    And heads in to read. She gets paid to read, not many do.

    No life is long enough to support all the relationships
    We build: kids to cats, Moms to cleaning, teacher-student,
    Boss to worker. One walker strides down Rosemary Street,
    Pulls his hat over his ears, holds palms open, seeking change.

    No gesture, however insignificant, goes unseen
    In a town full of women. Drivers bounce from one plan
    To another, running reds. Phone calls, calendar notes and
    Breakfast fill seconds between lane changes, defying death.

    No effort, regardless of intention, can sew a revolution
    Without mass appeal. Two men shrug, walking into shade.
    Nothing for them to do but drink and smoke and go to sleep.
    The truth is here to see but no one’s looking anymore.

    No wind, even from Saskatchewan, can clean us now.
    Some loudmouth stumbles in offering to teach, but
    None will have it. A rider, bussing there and back for free,
    Takes comfort when a man stands to offer her a seat.

    No sandwich, ever so scrumptious, lingers past initial taste.
    Sun shines on a bouncing orb. Four for four, he’s another
    Wizard with his hands. He does not get paid to shoot a ball.
    His hand-to-eye skills have no value in this part of the world.

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