The Black Pony

 [Poetry], Sonnets, The Timid Leaper  Comments Off on The Black Pony
Aug 312011

A pony came whose coat was black as pitch,
Whose blood was broody as water in a ditch.
Her eyes were saucers of red command,
Her teeth grew square on the taste of hands.
Wildflowers grew more wild at her passing scent;
Like nerves through skin she raced where she went.
There was more than strangeness in what made her so.
There was more of night in her hooves than men know.
Proud, unobeying breed of tameless hills,
Storm of strength with a godless guideless will.
What light burned behind her being may 
Not have been heaven sent, but burned to stay.
An inner star served as her only lamp:
None took her, none kept her, none triumphed. 

Round landscapes of strangers

 [Poetry], Nobody Poems  Comments Off on Round landscapes of strangers
Aug 282011
Pinned to minutes and the clock gone mad,
Round and round its stranger's face,
Round the hours sane as grace,
Round landscapes of strangers,
I go ghosted and gone in the flying dark
And this strangeness has no end.
I'd be lost if I could be found,
If found unlost at last I'd nail the heart
Home with the hammer of the soul.
But no nail shines, no hammer moves,
No home comes kissing from a cloud.
Strip the gilding from the stars,
Let hands tear down the dark dim griefs
That moored the heaven-faring lights;
Let hands build chapels as they move,
Wanderers wide round stranger and sky
In this strangeness that has no end.
Now I wander through cool body's shroud
Distant as touch in a statue's hand
A blownback bit without sail or keel;
No nail glows, no hammer moves.
Hands were made to fashion as they feel.