#340 - these flying islands

7.xii.20

340

these flying islands

 

gone like a cool breeze

 

frisbee free

strophe propelled

canvas a range of opinion

idea thrust

 

pastoral comical tragical

 

hello

find you here

in if you like

a conversation

 

that’s it

lean in with

tip till

keep a grip

 

let the string out

breeze take

beats tap

rarely rhyming

 

who will have the tiller then?

call a tug-o-war

 

climb!

take in and trim the cat

watch while

we let down ladders, many

 

sometimes it seems like a pile of islands

lift let

and there are becalmings

latitudes for donkey

mule

 

a prize

for the most beastly behaviour

allowances age made

here are the ruins

and blow me down –

the annual awards!

 

on the carpet

or took off by rug

come from the rope

and ever enough

down for the canvas count

won’t you look up

 

kilting

trapezoid!

Saturn high V

 

one bean for a cow and grew to this

pitch a tent skyward

fee fie on’t

sniff

 

not for profit

so let’s swap

I’ll show you if you’ll read mine

 

Louder

damn those hornball cicadas

 

islands are all second guessing

they are the dead flock

each go alone

above my nation

 

bombers have held a fete

 

call glissement

a capture of say eau d’imagination

or not

often as slap in the wet belly fish

come catch and toss again

 

time wasted!

not me off the hook

 

sail on!

and then the thousand years

sail of the line ride finest

 

little books for a world come ever smaller

pack fairytale

they’re seasonal

 

cast like coins two up

friends in the head

and many the tricks of presence are

wrought for the warmer world

so

blow me down

then a line gets out

sticks for instruction

mantra or an admonition

self to self

go go

 

toys and islands

in the bath once

was the whole of a harbour

storm safe

in the aeon till everything begins

 

you can take the machine apart

islands flutter by mechanical

wound as the heavens once must have in

 

a twinkle up for stars

never the same together but twice

 

see under them the workings

flowering all

come in a burst of cloud

 

propel the self as if by fart

 

or the how-they

pulleys sprockets

cogs rags oiled

toes grip the rung

 

slippery devil

then float free

 

ringside for angels falling

lit

and every weather

 

dance up in the air like this

others clear blue

and Christmas again

the Sunday month

 

I’m opening a door here

part your own mists, will you, won’t?

 

make births as from the undersea

and who will say volcano?

 

from all walks

many more in mind

 

sunk ones too

and islands down

 

someone hid a sneer behind

soon outed though

and back to task

 

we better a world as we go

make it up as

we’re here

we’re gone

ready or not

loose

and here we come

high as fast as who can fly

 

as is the leaf uplifted

a vapour trail and gone