Adapt

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy 

of Stephen Kingsnorth

CALLING TIME

Through papal plot, calendar,
to upset Caesar’s slot,
though without loss Janus could,
two-faced, watch years both ways.

Looking back, enjoy the site,
two cultures joined as one;
perhaps both knew—humans do,
pillars establish truth.

Give more space to future plans,
reluctant to look back—
that is how past lessons learned—
we have no place for that.

Annual pause to chink a glass,
sing sentimental song;
global clock turns round the earth,
while we claim our time mean.

Poor resolution, first plans,
our view tends monochrome;
signed cheques, yesterday, first test—
has new date registered?

Chronos marks the worldly hour,
while zeitgeist claims its case—
quantum physics in reverse,
bent universe, my mind.

Kairos, opportunity,
to catch the spirit’s breath;
ageing, obdurate, redeemed,
the moment, now, a choice.

 

 

 

 

 

VACANT SPACE

Bleached, grain blown, spokeshaved to the bone,
strand rigid frames, accompanied,
a tableau set for just the pair,
and teak, stark hardwood, outside air,
an teak, were not the grammar strained.
Some shabby chic without distress,
time to reflect, replay again
fond memories, mistakes relayed,
like self-assessment, revenue,
what taxed the conscience, freedoms found.
Overexposed, that paler tone,
the only shade, grey underneath,
clear tan lines, closer lobster hue,
the blush of noon, high watermark,
where driftwood waits, imagined forms.
Are any corpses, never found,
crabs underground, where worms turned sand?
Or did they fade, sun brittle, clawed,
detritus carried, lazy waves,
that gentle lapping, soundings, land?
So come and go, as tidal flow,
for weary, bar, horizon near;
a plot awaits, where resting plaque,
inscription laid, remembrance claimed,
until the wash removes all mark.
Here’s vacant space yet to be filled,
the spice of life if spliced aright,
though latter days, some quiet place
where whiter, brighter-rayed to sail,
fence-picket wraiths, beyond the pale.

____________________

NEEDS UNWRAPPED

Tree topped, these fairy lights above?
My gift lies under angel wings;
has he forgotten last year’s wrap—
another Father Christmas scarf?
This pantomime, brief fantasy,
until repacked in Attic box,
where gods aplenty, pantheon,
but out of sight, next year enough?
An Eve, packed inn, those late-night drinks;
sheep, woolly jumpers in the fields,
until I float off, hosts perchance,
a stable sleep, present unwrapped.
Day guests arrive with yet more gifts—
those foreign neighbours—Middle East—
but I must entertain the kids,
pretend, Ho Ho, not what I am.
This rollercoaster, give and take—
soon think on Easter, hot cross buns—
last year I saw them cheap—you know—
reduced, just like that scarf, I fear.
But if you will, pay the full price—
our story shows so few would know;
keep clear, I say, Easter parade—
a gain, the gift, still needs unwrapped.

 

 

 

 Liverpool Cathedral

 

AMONGST THE WAVES

I saw her in the Maundy aisle
of steady stream, robed city life,
my viewpoint from cathedral stall.
So short beneath the vaulted heights,
but stature tall as gazed about,
an eye caught from amongst the crowd,
as sight, finite, felt infinity.

I have the invitation card,
calligraphy in serif styled,
but on the day for charity,
she suffered cold, did not appear;
with faithful Philip, met instead.
And so her daughter, Princess Royal,
and Prince, now King, those years ago.

But Monarch then, in violet haze,
amongst the waves, her people, sea,
a gracious isle of dignity,
against dull dun of polished tiles,
our Queen alone, purple in aisle.

___________________

HOST

I am the host, but wafer thin,
received from fingers on the tongue,
too soon to melt in enzyme mix.
And then a draft from open mouth,
a hint of incense in that air,
as draught from cup of red is here.

A slip by Adam’s apple, core
of why this counts, to alter things,
turns to a torrent in the throat,
the deluge inside me, wash, drown,
a soaking and absorbing sea;
like fountain spilling from a tree,
as fresh rain and mythology,
transform us, both my host and me.

 

 

 

 

 

ADAPT

A hanging sheet of streaming rush,
a ghyll, some other term there used,
for falling water in cascade,
forced torrent chute from tower height,
with cloud from cauldron swirl in mix.

While wet and ready in the rift,
we feel the need for further skin,
though waterproof the derm we wear,
as born from breaking waters’ surge,
why do we hanker, oilskin ware?

Behind the curtain, drown of moss,
swing pendula and bouncing stems
who’ve found their rhythm, met the terms,
botanic garden on the rocks,
a microclimate, shrouded life.

A memory of life enclosed,
quite undisturbed save what prevails;
unlikely veil of thunder gush,
down to the vale, white water calms,
and meadow, growth belies above.

As pray for pastures, quiet, green,
still paths where guarded through the strains,
from birth through life to death in time,
nearby sustained the power of force,
and those who learn, adapt, maintain.

_______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

It is not a failure to readjust my sails to fit the waters I find myself in.

―Mackenzi Lee, The Lady's Guide to Petticoats and Piracy

_______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry!

A note that there are three NorCal poetry events happening tonight: a Zoom workshop by Indigo Moor at 6:30pm; a reading in Davis with Allegra Silberstein and Jean Biegun (7pm); and Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento (8pm). And this Sunday, Lincoln Poets will feature Patricia Caspers plus open mic at The Salt Mine in Lincoln. 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. I’m adding new ones almost every day at this time of year!

 

 

 

 “woolly jumpers in the fields”

—Public Domain Photo





 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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LittleSnake in sheep's clothing...