Transparent Words - Poetry

 

6 Poems by Tim Stone

 

 

She sets sail

 

Treat her gently. Don’t rock the boat

For today she sets sail, dressed in her mahogany coat

The pale veil, swathed around her head

She’s wreathed in stillness. Swaddled bed

Dressed to the nines, wrapped in a pall

Casket arms closed tight. No chance of a fall

A human shell, which loved to live

Shut eyes, that once wept, now nothing to give

Handling gifts in statue white hands

Traversing new spheres, into foreign lands

Unaware of all, but posing a thoughtful mull

Holy water crashes the bridge, then splashes the hull

She will quietly slip away, now she lies

Head pointing north on the ebbing tide

Swallowed up into the crimson sunrise

Taking the ultimate helper skelter ride

Sinking down on the current for hours

No breath from God, rustles the flowers

She away through the curtain hiding clouds

No longing glance back at the pining crowds

A future unknown, but the past not forgotten

She has not gone. Only risen

 

 

 

Our night out

 

The crowds were out, milling and crushing,

Bellowing smoke around the bars.

Licking clean spillage off of the tables,

While pumps poured steaming, “sludging”  beer

And we cruised the white knuckle ride of ale.

 

Inhibitions slipped like a strap off the shoulder.

Eyes glinted with rapier sharpened gleam.

As the world spiralled smaller and in discussion

France appeared to be a seated neighbour and

South America, my armed linked pal,

 

And as our eyes sank, and the liquid rose,

Blotting out the swaying flickering rooms.

We staggered into the tunnel of darkness,

Swallowed by the knowledge that tomorrow will arrive

And you skipped from view behind sliding doors,

 

 

 

A New Beginning (Part one)

 

It is relative calm in the Niddervale valley,

Where the wind blusters without a voice.

But on the steep climb towards the moors,

It sends shrapnel of leaves and twigs,

Leaping walls, dodging trees and slapping my face.

A thrush hides inches away under a bush,

But on the moor top where white waterfalls race,

Drawing impressions of old men’s beards,

Extending long in the breeze.

The sounds are louder than a storm on a beach.

The wind batters like a cook kneading dough,

As it gets rid of the lumps, smoothing out my life.

So I throw my head back and howl in its face.

I splay out my arms and lean forwards, but stay upright.

To the left, fields of grass, gasp for green.

While to the right, gorse resembles an over-cooked pie crust.

And I slip on mud, bury my feet in pools,

As rabbits scurry away playing chicken with me.

 

The baptism (Part two)

The rain, feather light, sprinkles harder into

What I would call, a shower. And amazingly I shelter,

Beneath the roofless church of St Mary’s.

The yews, whipped by the wisping rain and wind,

Huddle behind naked, ancient walls like wet blankets.

And centuries of history lie still,

As I stand dripping alone in the sanctity,

With God’s hand splashing a blessing onto my head.

 

 

Rainy day in Manchester (again)

 

The bus almost hits the back of the van,

That had slewed across in front of it,

Changing direction in a last second detour.

I mentally note that the driver of the bus,

Has time to hit the horn before applying the brakes,

On the slick, wet, tarmac-ed road.

The squeal, then brash burp bounces off,

The cold, grey-steeled, surrounding buildings.

But by now, the van had long gone in a misted spray,

And finally, as the bus passes me,

I notice the wild gesticulations of its driver.

While he tells the passengers his thoughts.

 

The noise and brutality of the incident,

Scares and unsettles me.

I’m jumpy, and on edge. Nervous and wary.

Yet I suddenly recall my thoughts before I was disturbed.

“I wish I could walk out in front of the next bus”.

 

 

The lights go down on Skiathos

 

We boiled in the evening sun.

Simmering as the light faded.

Cooling in the breathless dusk.

And freezing as the dark put colour back

Into our bleached bodies.

 

The ferry leaves, pulling out like a mud slide,

As the waiter smiles ergonomically,

Slipping menus beneath white porcelain smiles.

His jet-licked hair preened on water.

 

On precision plates, the meal swims before our eyes,

Sweeping coastal aromas around our quivering nostrils

As the wine tipples gently from bottle to glass,

Gracefully disappearing into rotating mouths

 

Small boats idly wobble between waves.

Lurching on dunes of swept water,

As the deep throated Jet foil wades into the harbour.

Stiff boatmen stand erect in backs of small boats

Ferrying designer clothes to shore

On this ‘near as have it’, perfect night

 

 

Grandfather

 

Two children are tumbling like puppies.

Wearing rough shoes and sack-cloth clothes,

They bounce off mottled steps.

 

A rifle retort from the bitten mouth

Of their grandfather repel their movements,

But not the curling mouth or gleeful eyes

That bob and gleam, full of youth.

 

One day, they will have coarse grained skin,

Sunken wizened eyes, scarred bodies and shut minds.

Carry plastic bags full of empty bottles

And hold a vocal grandparents grumbling rumble

 

But for today, they just tumble.

 

Pg12

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