LIMPET TO YOUR GOLDEN BRANCH
This tight gold round, this suffocating fourth
you string along, boughed to my lead
yellow-flag me to a jackdaw role
and my penfold ways panic
in the daze that gave them light.
Your naked leathers hang now
buckled to your high-stirruped birth
Spartan youth cuckolding greying cares
your hallowed wet; my screamed in fear
unaccustomed to the ward I’ve borne and bred
limpet to your golden branch
Can I high dive into this tranquil pool?
Breaking by concentric circles the deep, calm sleep
unstitch the peace I’ve fought to still
Watch myself target this cool hub.
Thus crossed will I again scurry below
or openly embrace, open armed,
this rushing body – head to head.
Your new sexed form, still mother to my child
calls the rigid rot within
urges me to take and reap you
fall blinded in that moment of my fall.
You see, I still bud to the crib that copies life
append to the darkness of my call.
baton-hatched, my loving relays
drool into your thirsty lap.
IS THERE IN ESSENCE A TIME …
Is there in essence a time that seeks to stride?
A need that whispers through the false acacias
in the cloister calm of this secluded cafe,
laced with the clink of couples’ glasses,
the breeze in silvered trees,
and children playing on gravel paths.
Is there at work – behind the manicured lawn,
the Private sign and undulating conversation
a dynamic presence,
pulsing like sunburning blood, speaking of
desire on summer’s first weekend?
Is there in essence a time that seeks to strive?
The summer storm brooding the sight of sun away
the ochre messenger of light on ruddy rooves;
the shafts that gild the new green shoots
buff the gold and copper spires.
squalls that blow the day away
trap shaking feathers in the warning wind
join the indigestive rumble of hill thunder as
heads poke from the cafe windows
bronzed figures watching the blushing tiles and
watching the light. Watching the light
forever watching for the light.
THIS DAWN FINDS FAULT WITH EASE
This dawn finds fault with ease
ears drilled by cluttered birdsong
morse-coded through iron gutters
a net of nerves torn and ripped.
“Beneath the tiles and shards, my friend
As lowly as the worm, my friend.”
Scratching from the nightmired catch of hours
barbed by the doll who once walked
chestnut-naked before the sun
(who now blasts vines beneath the watcher-hill)
my souped mind’s eye on the broken fields
the quilted hill that squares the tower
where kickback mares abort,
redden the hand-scuppered furrows
and crimson the dew’s pearls hard as ice
in the shame of the rural siren’s morning search
in this nursing room glare of summer
white as a clinic with the pikes and swordfish
of bad night logic summoning up her pussy shack
drive the nail through her five petalled hand
watch the wheel crossed and turned
and spun like a wreath
its bloody spokes seeding up the hill.
I replay the moment of your passing
hardened to my balcony view
lieutenant by your jugged remains
sentry in the hat you left behind.
I unlid your urn to the wind
to bear your firedone bits away
your finer qualities blow into the trees
some of you clouds back to the waxed table
scattered like a million planets (or poison cloud)
I celebrate your reduction,
breathe in Your Substance
as you like gossamer float in shame
like a josstick curl scent
wind to ashes; like sea mist
But still the hill beats like a great, green heart
tackled now with private mythologies
the unzipped heart a bagful of desire
I wait for your hammering adieu
and then my front will red-face mock the gales
my calmwood host seek a fiery call
candleshot, I’d seek the burning pall,
wrestle with all breakers playing my ball
and if there was a blank leaf left to print
with some new type I’d score the haul.
but now my humdrum diction
is pampered by this orphaned form
my ears are pitched too high and sexed for praise
my crude parade stained with sullied pose
I seek only a heart’s remove and warmth
but the huge green muscle signifies my cut.
Down the slope from the gad-eyed watch tower
beneath the turf beats the victim’s heart
huge as a cathedral, dark as catacombs
drilling the beat in a whale-ribbed vault
hanging with fish flesh
her open bows a slaving hull
rattling the tickled Jonah like a bird.
On the hill lovers pet in littered corners
above the throbbing from the mammoth buried deep
the beating green stain and bass rill
answered by the eddying tread of night beasts
unheard by the secret city children
but the tummock’s monstrous beat
picks up dogs’ ears on their nightly round
shakes the night doves from their trees
bending to the green pile’s pitch and yaw.
Back in the cell trembles a lesser heart
one plagued with the stain of a memory
that black-tipped arrow of a deed
his marbled hands poking like governed images
or graven, poke at a marbled sky
from the blackened pool of her revenge.
“I have lived in the hand of God
Was nurtured in a higher sphere
Cupped in some high, honeyed valley.”
And these memories come knocking like black bordered letters
from the front.
the black gloved rap upon the door
now muted by black-laced gauze.
And reading now the ceiling of his passion
the room takes on a bloodloss of its own
a debt repaid to the great green pound
that flushes out the haunting hill
and with the pressure cuts the glass
that toasts the girl whose life was undertaken
beneath the sore, grey molar of the keep.
and with the gushing tide of penitence
the girl and love are blushed into a life.
The lovers now outstretched beneath the stars
lulled by the mellowing muscle
which, quickened to a pace, has softened now.
birds return to branches, worms to earth.
Another leak has satisfied her horrid urge.
Philip O’Neil, born in the UK worked as a journalist and editor for a number of newspapers and magazines for 20 years. He has worked in the UK, Belgium, Czech Republic, The Balkans, Romania and the US and also has had his photographs published in over a dozen publications. Meanwhile he published a collection of poetry ‘Riera’ He currently lives in Prague writing a follow up to his novel “Mental Shrapnel’. His poetry has been published in ‘Optimism’, ‘X-Ink’, ‘Asian Signature’, ‘Deep Water Journal’, ‘Wilderness House Literary Review’and ‘Suisin Valley Review’ and ‘Miracle Magazine’, ‘All Poetry’