V.38

Do you ever get that feeling
on a late spring day, at noon when
the sun bears down amongst vile blues
and undecided clouds, and yet

it’s night? When the high pollen count
and the feeling that everything
is just an instanciation
of old recycled days, textures

the graphic engine once used on
bricks, are now reused for the spilled
potatoes on the roundabout,
these things combine and you just feel

mad? And you aren’t sure you’ve ever
been awake? and the flagstones see
your shadow with an evident
disgust, fall upon them.

That its night with a veneer of day?
Your actions seem to multiply
without ending or beginning.
And sometimes it’s okay. Squirrels

pace around the garden of my
adolescent dreamscape, bouncing
off each other, the bird feeder
and their black eyes watch me, eating

Storm 4

There was a storm, the other night
as I paced in a cold sweat
There was a storm which was persistent like a headache
Out the window I gazed, feverish
and the jittering fields gazed back
Paddock and field, the horses huddled in a corner
The thunder didn’t roll so much as it tumbled
and their black eyes in the darkness became grey in their wordless staring
moment by moment, grey, with the surging light
I was ill, I closed the curtains
And the thunder was my lullaby
a grating lullaby to jolt me awake, from time to time
Til lost among the collage of dreams
There was a storm, the other night
it loosed the dirt to carry it down the hill
an endless task, for the hills tend to rise again
I lied, fizzling out
My aches generating small pockets of consciousness
storms on the face of the earth.