Submissions by SeaCat

Maudlin, weepy,
beer oiled in pipe-smoke shrouds,
I’m drunkenly wordless in the tavern  
watching old men  
play round after round of domino topple.  
  
The grandfather clock  
stood in the corner strikes  
nine  
and through smoky veils, and scratchy juke-box tunes  
she approaches,  
clothing - a total textile-transgress  
hair - a chestnut wind-tangled thatch;  
offers a tissue  
dabbing my eyes.  
   
My Talisman,  
a pendant around her neck,  
I anoint with a kiss  
    ...

Alone on the beach, I pondered:

Ink needs a pen, a pen needs ink.
But what use is a pen without a hand,
and the hand without a mind?
And what is a mind without Language,
Language without an idea?
Ink without language, pen and mind
is ink - merely spilled.

Foolish poet - you think I am so constrained?

Alone on the beach, I wrote in the sand:

I am as a bottle of wine
made to be opened - and drunk.

The sun gazed hot, wind swept the beach
and the words that I wrote - were lost.

Spiteful spats split
the heart’s gentle pulse
and shuttered, brittle plans.

For as the heart desiring
sings soft-soaked ballads
the mind, in shame, decries
repeated volleys - jibes

dispatched from a crooked mouth
twisted in a sneer
while the tender heart cowers,
encircled by heated fear.

Brewing from this tension
seeping through piercing radar,
eyes meet and hands, tentative
to a delicate finger tip - touch.