Vierzon

I

Swallows flit above the tracks in the maze of high tension wires.
A jukebox mush clashes,
with the screech of a cappuccino machine.

Switching seats, I ripped my shirt - no matter, it's an old one.

Rain in abundance, the grass,
the trees, the leaves and flowers all in abundance.

The sun peeks through clouds
There is plenty, abandoned, growing, with abandon.
The trees grow, the weeds grow.
No one stops them.


II

Stuck in Vierzon,

"A life view, belongs, as you belong, to them,
  Your life even is not your own, your awareness is not of one life but of all life,

  Courage, you may take in this."


III

Slender water in furrows slender by the tracks
A calm yielding fog, misting.
Barns loom a river swollen, over its banks
Trees midstream, below water,
A man in a garden shed
Where hoes and rakes are kept.

Rails grinding, metal polishing metal
Small leaves on trees, soft yellow
Sheep in field, tufts of cotton
An aqueduct monorail spanning sage.


IV

The next train doesn’t come.

I write - when thinking can't.
Future tidal forces of change
My mind is distended by super gravitation
A sphere, a hollow tube, by super gravitation.

Pride in achievement, all yours,
All dreams, all truths, all that is, grows, or dies, yours,
Now, you must leave it here, you too must leave yourself behind, when you go.

"I'm stuck in Vierzon."
I ask myself:
"Who is talking?"

Drunken Fighters

The river is high,
Roses sit in vases,
Bright sun burns the hedges.

A season takes the sun away.
but the sky changes.
Clouds blow darkly,
shadows pace about,
masking streets, casting gloom,

Clouds tumble,
onto rooftops, unsteady.
Drunken fighters reel,
against a weighty sky.

Small Words

Pictures emote words,
And words give back pictures,
imprecise dreams that last.
One has to learn what they mean, just ask.

Differing from others by size and race,
Compact, compressed to a smallish space
Best bring in imagination,
Come in order, to understand them.

Pencils endowed with leads of tears,
Lenses won't enlarge us here.
Tiny moments justly charged,
Should I pretend greater, not small not large?

Words pack ways of seeing,
into spaces that lack in meaning.

Small Locket

When the locket sprung open
a delicate boned girl,
mane framing shoulders,

leaps out.
She hides a poem in a shell, lying curled
guarded, for ten years - a conch
so lonely
slicing through time.

She rattles the door
to my boat, won't even leave me in peace
for a decent hour.

Grey sky now.

Has the locket sprung open?
An alert of other forces?

Unerringly she points to questions,
that are supercilious,
about the times we should have taken.