Image for the poem Pebbling Pilgrimage

Pebbling Pilgrimage


Washing in batik skies  
Tidal belly scrapes over shingle  
Cobalt swimmings turn blue  
Shades of arc(h)ed existence.  
Fluting along whale motorway,
Crashing roll, strangled berceuse,  
Collapsing lungs of caved yearnings  
Since all hearts were soaked in daesin oil.  
From the beginning forebears  
were diving for pearls.  
On wet sand my bow breaks  
Collecting pebbles in bistre bucket;  
Moving crab-like, soft sho(r)e shuffle,  
The beads chime as Shakti bracelets  
Swinging from boughs on forest fringe,  
Sharing stories set in stone.  
Ejaculated by sea spray  
Ground by history bedrock  
Stained by moonlight, mirroring  
Bird wings under waves.  
Into the pebble pool:  
Pen shall skinny dip  
Indigo ink rippling o’er    
Smooth naked flint skin.  
Love’lithic liberations  
Commit to where water and land meet.  
A rotten fish and seagull cadaver  
In fading light on verge of foreplay.  
Two pairs of glassed eyes become three  
A tourist forms a diorama trinity,  
Crumbling sepulchral razing on promenade.  
He belongs to family of bereaved  
Stood as binoculars ~ lost lenses        
Tracing bodies in morgue’ing memories:  
Angles shift, jaw jut to universe edge  
Heeled flesh to tine of every continent,  
70 degrees from the tired sun.  
Dreams cling to other side of breakers -  
He does not return my smile.  
Autumn breath draws  
Glacial curtains missionary open  
Allow anaesthetised mist to form  
On hospital windows by the sea.  
Oceans cry as Carmenta’s love child  
Cradled between bruised birth ribs  
& corded state of becoming    
Tears stretch flux to emotional flex.  
Beyond the peak of colours  
As mountains fall into  
Sleeptember shadowlands -  
Ember’ed sunsets slash day’s throat  
With a blunting blade,  
Cleaving thru’ hill cleavage with    
Ambering thrust of rust.  
Winter will be described thus:  
‘harsh’ ‘cruel’ ‘unrelenting’  
As it always is, and  
We always do -  
Living among patterns.  
Old red eyes had returned  
One forgotten summer:  
Eternal Barman coalesced vodka  
Dredged dregs…..  
Cockroach bones, burnt diary ashes  
Eyelashes of love graved, guttered rain.  
In absence of absinthe sugar crystals  
Liquesce thru’ needled eye, spirit rasped  
Raw to throat, as rat being skinned.  
1001 ways to go astray  
Typical me, found another way…..  
You could tell as I slept all day.  
Sometimes a voice broken asks  
Brushing verisimilitude verse into corners:  
‘Is this all self portrait  
Palimpsest painting of inner self  
Is it all made up?  
Lipstick dust on mirrors  
Open books, stained cups  
Vase’d dead rose, rain rattling window?’  
Contours of heart cartography/  
Finally found latitude of home:  
Tis long roam home when your name is shit,  
How could one walk into life of another  
When others have cut legs down to knees?  
Honey, I very much at home!  
Viewing our blue moon carnival  
Thru’ hubris of hubble telescope,  
Laika barks muffled drum roll  
For 2 souls in streamed confluence of 1.  
how dare we even  
think such things,  
when future is unthinkable  
but here we are –  
thinking it  
Snow shavings of your skin  
Will cover my mindscape  
Lightest veil will bridle all this  
To reins and straps of spring,  
Sun salutations,  
Butterfly breath on new’ing dawns.  
The summer can wait  
Strawberry finger prints on flesh  
Sucking in foutain’ous sandalwood streams.  
Let summer break prayers  
On circled monsoon marshland.    
In poetry of the night  
Writing into me  
Dusky ochre twilight  
Streetlights trace outstretched hands  
To dance amongst wildflowers.  
Flowing flows.....  
Morning dream-drops  
Of all to behold.  
#pic. Irish Sea. By me. Boring facts of the day. Very close to the spot where Larkin’s parents met for first time in 1902. Ghost of Ruth Ellis has been perceived staring out to sea here. Last woman hanged in UK, raised in this town.
Written by Trouble_Loves_Me
Published | Edited 16th Oct 2019
Author's Note
For Uma. Seems stanzas since last scribbled. Probably tell by disjointed ramble. Anyways, out of chaos comes...fill in your own blank. Song by The Style Council. 'You're the best thing.' Quite, love....
For Uma. Seems stanzas since last scribbled. Probably tell by disjointed ramble. Anyways, out of chaos comes...fill in your own blank. Song by The Style Council. 'You're the best thing.' Quite, love. xx
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