Paradise Misplaced

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, 

Wrexham, Wales

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy 

of Stephen Kingsnorth

 

 

 

SPECIFIC GRAVITY WITH PARKINSON’S

It’s not the proof I drink at night,
the late-hour tablet, making light,
or timid rise, creaks stirring snores,
but tremor sways my gravity,
beyond my chuckles, Summer Wine.
A kerb or pothole, if addressed
with pause and concentrated step,
is fine, though not a pebble beach,
early learning on the strand, no
castle king, avoiding the sand.
In dizzy days when options hailed,
many choices, ways to turn,
finding balance on my paths,
depended on the footwear worn.
Crepe soles for dance, or mountain trek,
Dad’s slippers, or my mother’s socks,
I’ve tried that combination code,
avoiding slip-ons, tied in knots,
weighed up all options, centred thought,
but often waded, guttersnipe.
I disliked climbing, rockface, ropes,
but scaling tree trunk, from the ground?
As if skip squirrel, creeper tweet,
nuthatches headfirst, making mark
uncurling bark, find canapés,
beak garibaldi, biscuit bugs.
The right foot forward, only room—
at least it’s not three-legged race,
though any challenge better faced
when all companions holding hands.

 

 

 

 

NEW ATLANTIS

My rolls of film from Kodak box—
how often have I half-exposed,
been forced to change in open light,
turned final number, tourist site?
Then wait, developed at the lab,
find my focus obliterate,
but yet I keep it, memory,
that flash, the streak, reminiscence.
It causes stare of concentrate,
alure beyond my clippered fence,
to ask why gaps proliferate,
what is this tarmac secret find?
So did some aliens destroy
the evidence, my photo snap—
for is this launch of bedtime tale
from grandpa, who thinks Einstein new?
Perhaps a flash to blot the view,
divert from sabotage attempt,
that Dad indoors must never know?
Chromatic play on monochrome,
this chemistry returned as art,
how do we paint in common sense,
find landing space in concrete place,
our questions, lingua franca posed,
inspire, excite, empirical?

 

 

 

 

FRAYED

Are you too frayed—both senses here—
beyond repair, just one of more?
What looms as stains bloom where we walk,
mats lined, dust-beaten, strung along,
or even damp, hung out to dry,
those carpetbaggers, cleaning up,
The warp and weft, past stories spun
unravel, as torn edges worn,
earth, air, fire, water close at hand,
invading homes, laid by the hearth.
Or do we still swear second-hand,
just fairy tales, well-worn, ignored,
our fake news faces, on our sleeve—
as rug pulled out from under souls;
trip hazard now beneath our feet,
revealed, no longer underbrushed?
But what are tassels, what is frayed—
perhaps those pinking shears in play—
or maybe view, rose-tinted lens,
to obviate need needle, thread?
A timely stitch saves all cat’s lives
but we may let sleeping dogs lie.
A tasselled shawl for some a prayer,
for others, mat must point the way;
but fate, all faiths, lies at the door—
no cover-up can varnish facts.

 

 

 

 

PARADISE MISPLACED

Paradise, garden, so is said,
though yucca speaking for itself;
as for the lush from spirit’s reign—
all growth will stunt in sand so soiled.

Heart strings, chordae tendineae,
this heart cut out, tried cords knot tied;
but cordyline cannot replace—
know transplant more than substitute.

That butcher’s slab on sunny beach
should warrant scratchy tourist, bored;
what gargoyle nosey, hang board fixed—
eye focus on some budding snout?

Coiled snake the barren planters fits,
potent, without live blooming fruit;
this glory not, less costly suit—
a nail-fixed sign on wooden tree.

 

 

 

 

 

FOR THE BARN

From quill to kill in sweepstake thrill,
claw talon spike in skin-pierce strike,
flight banking over strata flanks
of wheaten grain blades, beige laid sky,
oatmeal for rodents, stubble, chaff.

Spread web, drawn shaft and calamus,
rich dun to fawn, aerated fan,
soul camouflage of sight and sound—
tragic trick, the magic of owls,
buff, slick sail, raid of smash and grab.

Terror over the meadow glides,  
a glorious harvest, dormouse meal,
but this tale, is it victim, mill,
drop like a stone for grind or kill?

 

 

 

 

WOODLAND TRUST

You know the smell of fresh-mown grass,
a warning to surrounding plants—
attack is underway, defend,
infuse your leaves, unpleasant taste.
It seems that mayday calls are made,
that trees and blooms do talk as one,
as stem and carpel, petiole
join with the chatter, Instagram.
But stay on trail, from courtesy,
nor trespass on the privacy,
the dialogue twigs bud and leaf—
forgiven though, when stride roughshod,
and leave destruction in our wake—
if learn the error of our way.
We leave the willows weeping still
as they decry lost stratagems,
tall conifers confer at height,
hold summits where discussions held,
the poplar view at holm with oak,
and dieback ash hopes phoenix rise.
Trunk calls like telephone exchange,
though poles apart as telegraph,
keep free speech exercised at will
where fox and badger, weasel bed,
gone to earth, or set in holt.
As fungi web beneath the soil,
the saprophytic principle,
in governance of woodland trust,
we walk where angels fear to tread,
our soles on sacred soul debate.
Track changes in prevailing moods;
be mindful as you choose your path.

 

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

OURS TO KNOW
—Stephen Kingsnorth

But is there space in busyness—
fulfilling duties of our love—
for testing path we follow through,
the sole, our bridge, the heel and so
our soul, our reach, our wholeness told?
Reflecting as we pace from roots
through time and age, the route we make,
do we read signs along the way,
so even when our sights are low,
and cast down at the cobblestone
rainbow breaks in prism bow,
find promised glow is ours to know.

_____________________

Our thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s poetry, with public domain photos he has sent to accompany them on this, the first day of December.

Tonight, the Poetry Night Reading Series in Davis presents Katie Peterson and Christian Gullette, and Joe Montoya’s Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe and Juice Bar has featured readers in Sacramento. Both have open mics; both begin at 8pm. Click UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS at the top of this column for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

“…the magic of owls…”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA







 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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