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eclipse

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  1. Robert Burns dreamscape poem

    This poem was written for a competition-any feedback would be appreciated-thank-Barry
  2. Robert Burns dreamscape poem

    Williams Burns would plough soil,his son practiced vowels alludingto embryonic verse, he had a dreamabout staring into a loch near fourtrees that were shedding leaves.The moon made an imprint Roberts' deathmask,then a poet made the mask crythrough spoken verse shedding tears over four countries.Agnes Burns passed away, the faintimprint of a mask laid on waters,RobertBurns muttered a verse, the windsmingled with the death visages sinuousbreath as it followed a poets words.Robert Burns collected two roses that passed each other on a riverand caught two tears that crossedeach other on opposite faces towarn in a distinctive accent of thornapproaching thorn, the scent ofrevolution was carried from France-the faces of it's dead appeared on ariver next to a burning forest. The sun and moon offer veins,can a poet discern the patterns in the flames to find an incantationand mix fire with blood and turnaround the flood of French indignationto create a balanced synergy borne out ofScottish resentment.Hands of dissent pull at tree roots, formerselves pour through Burns like the grains ofsand in an hour-glass, he is a sailing emberspawned in time's fire hovering outside ofan hour-glass that drifts towards Scottish rose whose head has been replaced with that of the English monarch singing Celtic songs tempting native traitors to prick their thumbs and drop blood on English soil, hands of consent in the ground wait ready to hammer the rain like nails an astute poet weighs fire on scales making them tip subtly as he rips up pages of history.
  3. Quills

    Fingers of light wear the gloves of an unknown river on new years as the ghost of Robert Burns delivers a recitation, fingers offer different dialects in sign language. The river's dreaming God summons in shivering lunar silhouette the dead lovers of Mr Burns, they are give life by the light's acoustic bones, they stagger the moon in their net, an owl passes and they attach the wings of it's future ghost. The moon sheds three hundred and sixty five feathers as it hovers on gloves over water. An old poet drafts verses, a river releases hands to deliver the newly born on this new years day as camping eyes wait. Falling rain is like the echoes of the blades of grass, clouds the echo of a poets foot-steps from his night time walks. The feathered moon lands on Robert's hand and demands his disparate memories, then commands an ancient sleeping wind to release the quill from it's pocket, old lovers raise a fire, the wind floats the quill above the flames, Burns articulates verse about the preservation of Scotland's independence.
  4. Cloud walking

    I can hear in the wind's onomatopoeia the year I swore I would cross the tees. Angels walk above cliffs of Falcon clints wearing clouds as slippers, the crack of thunder the sound of them knocking on the rivers door. The river Tees is like an untied shoelace. I can trace the residue from angels treading on grapes, the waters here where the moon bathes it's spear throwing it down challenging me to sing and make a river cry then find a tear placing it on the spear. Could I make the river straight placing the moon's reflection at it's tip to, then walk straight line with angels where I would watch them dip there wings. The river's ghost is fragmented in the rain falling- it brings details of a dual crossing, when I finally pass over the tees and leave the earth where I will be reconstructed somewhere with the lost parts of egglestone abbey. I crossed the footbridge over London's beck before I lost my eyesight, I can hear the echo of pipistrelle bats that live in the guam viaduct, they are like the visions of the Tees that hang in the viaducts of my mind, I used to drink at the bluebell inn at eaglescliffe, do bats drink in the dark?. I painted eyes on the wings of a kingfisher, it dives into the reflected moon and the tear stained spear is collected by the moon, briefly we have the same coloured eyes, did the river catch it's own reflection? I make a covenant with the darkness, fingers of light wear the river's gloves, they caress my eyelids hoping to return my sight then take my hand to bathe under the waters of the high force waterfall.
  5. Beeston 2

    The night offers me a bouquet of moons, my night time walks along the canal. Clouds above are like tourists, will the reach the Maltings?-canal waters sing of journeys they have missed. Evening shadows offer a selection of poses as the sun rises over the Wednesday market with its collection of muses ready to inspire browsers. I left a tear on the train track, an empty glass on the hotel bar, eventually the light will reach haughty eyes from the Beeston star. I placed a flower on the Crimean memorial, a bee landed, ghosts of soldiers left after being fed by paradise, relatives will track their ancient ties and pray in Saint John the Baptists' church-the wind outside is wearing the uniform of war walking across graves, there is at least one soldier the uniform Fits who shaves memories when a prayer passes through him followed by the eternally recurring bullet returning to its gun, fires of war echo in the sun. moon the oars man saves drowning spirits, their heartbeats echo in the final footsteps of the wind. Street signs ask me for directions to visit lost residents. Beeston stories have been told creating gold for a ring ready to make Beeston's hand gleam. I dream about a hand guiding clouds that rain silver on gardens and hives full of silver. Van Der Valk finds his own shining fingerprints on a gold band. Memories are like rain as it falls onto clouds reflected on the marina, fleeting rapid eye movements keep dreams afloat as visions of the day are replayed. In a dream a train stops before a tear, the moon takes the water with its many reflections and places it in a glass with a flower.
  6. Beeston

    The night offers me a bouquet of moons, my night time walks along the canal. Clouds above are like tourists, will they pass the Maltings?-canal waters sing of journeys they have missed. Evening shadows offer a selection of poses as the sun rises over the Wednesday market with it's collection of muses ready to inspire browsers. I left a tear on the train track, an empty glass on the hotel bar, eventually the light will reach haughty eyes from the Beeston star. I placed a flower on the Crimean memorial, a bee landed, ghosts of soldiers left after being fed by paradise, relatives will track their ancient ties and pray in Saint John the Baptists' church-the wind outside is wearing the uniform of war walking across graves, there is at least one soldier the uniform Fits who shaves memories when a prayer passes through him as his heatbeat is echoes in the wind's footsteps. Street signs ask me for directions to visit lost residents. Beeston stories have been told creating gold for a ring ready to make Beeston's hand gleam. I dream about a hand guiding clouds that rain silver on gardens and hives full of silver. Van Der Valk finds his own shining fingerprints on a gold band.
  7. Painted dreams

    thanks everyone
  8. drought

    The desert waters it's ghost as it paints a mirage of the rain falling on a rose trapped in a mirror, hands appear outside of me like roses on a thorn, they demand grain, dreams are watering hope. There is a rose that exists in form waiting to be born out of nature's apparatus, but she will only offer the thorns of a paradigm that haunts in camouflage. To some my people are grains of sand ready to make blind those whose synthetic sun rows against the real sun on night's boat. The river's ghost lays here waiting for the rains. I will flatten the earth to make it into a parachute, shaking out silver, gold, sand, and rogues will fall.
  9. camp prison

    The eyes I painted on the cell wall cry a tear for every lost ally who receive the wrong ghosts. I am one of the wax tears on the candle I bandaged unable to fall, is heaven waxing angels wrapped in the narrative of war waiting for names. The flame reaches the bandage, I am unable to gauge colours as I watch bodies being carried out of the prison camp in sacks- I am led to the tattoo day has placed on night's back of a sunken church with an exposed spire seeking history's vein.
  10. Painted dreams

    I followed a feather through a dream across a bridge cloaked in feathers-cascading with false echoes of birdsong, disparate dreams of the population drafted a melody from echoes. The wind shaped wings floating the bridge to correct divisions, returning Hull to it's elusive core. An artist with Alzheimer's, I painted sixty eyes in the sky, the age I was diagnosed. My imagination remains free and memories of the time a wolf running through a forest past trees, passed through sixty eyes to the threshold of vision. I sketch an affectionate stray cat that comes into the garden, he is unconstrained, the claws of time are slowly cutting through my easel. In the night sky, I see sixty eyes closing. I paint myself with the light from stars, two figures facing each other, the first light after leaving the womb and the first exposure to sunlight- both sculpting memories and now the crush of dementia which is like giving a brush to a statue next to children's playground with two ghosts sitting on the see-saw. Hull is a city where the senses will never stagnate, while sailing on its architecture. The incandescence of the light sprayed across Pearson Park is like a candle high above the flames of the four seasons, waxing tears without them falling. Do leaves have ghosts? the ghosts of a tired perception have left Hull as it hosts a new synergy created by the city of culture, The river and sky are like a camera and photographer that will never meet and the waves like words that will never find a page, Hull a clock becoming aware of it's age, I have another dream in which sentences hover close to a blank page without making contact, the page has forgotten which order the words go and the feather returns dipped in ink. Walking through Pearson Park memories of a childhood spent in the park return, ghostly leaves are like tongues echoing children's laughter as winds above blow through empty branches, winds never forget to blow moving freely where they want to. I hold an image in my mind of clutching the moon while sliding down a helter-skelter, just before I go to sleep that night the moon empty's its cache of cascading falling memories. I used to walk my dog through the park, now lost friends are walking my memories through heaven further towards the threshold to a place where my tale will be told and I will be free to move memories through the minds and dreams of friends and relatives. I get deja Vu walking down Hessle Road, I cannot remember the future as tears are launched like lifeboats rescuing thoughts, time spent here is liberating, like restitching nets to gather visions of the past. Hull is like a needle with two eyes, one of them invisible making visible the allies who have been counter stitching cultivating local culture, the thread has fallen away from the sewers of sorrow. I have been trying to weigh fire before it starts, as Hull's heart becomes aflame with the city of culture art.I use eyes in the sky as stepping stones to bring home the paint brush I have swapped with time, day and night swap tongues, I try and synchronise my strokes with time's brush, I sketch a clock starting with the hands time completes the body cloaked in fire, time holds it's breath and blows on the flames, sixty embers are scattered.
  11. Hessle road

    Fishing industry dies, the community mirror went blind, historians tried to pour the Humber into a cup and claimed the winds bled but were unable to find a single drop of blood. My grandfather was a fisherman who claimed his leg was made of wood and told me to wait for the echo from heaven's stair where he is holding the mirror after giving it sight with story's of Hessle road, on a clear a night sight I swear I can see the mirrors many tears.
  12. A short ghost story

    The cemetery tree overlooking Dominic Kings grave had arms operating on it's heart, on branches hung an angel and King, Caesar Dominic's dog laid across his grave, the dog had been mute since the death of his owner. Street signs beyond the graveyard walked, whispering among themselves, the angel hanging muttered a street name, Dominic was trying to bury the sky. The moon turned into a cat, coughing out moon-balls, placing them in Caesar's eyes, the dog could now see street signs hanging upside down from the sky, his dead master dropped a lead for Caesar, they moved across the sun's mask which had a painting of the earth-a tear and a crimson coloured angel clambering for the tear. The sun was dreaming about it's inevitable collapse, with the king of flames chanting Dominic's name, he and Caesar could could hear the cries of a hungry child left alone for hours. They walked through a meadow to a tree where a young boy with a heart condition was swaying silently, aching for contact, how far had they both travelled?-the dead have no need for mathematics as they pass the ghost of a rose counting it's lost thorns, above it a clock full of cuckoos trying to escape eternal echoes, the cuckoo outside the clock is fixed with Dominic shocked at being unable to reach former selves beckoning him towards paradise. They walk on finding themselves climbing the steps of a lighthouse, reaching the top they see the gigantic figure of Dominic's father painting the glass black, he used to take the light bulb out when Dominic was a child leaving him in the dark. Caesar and Dominic go outside, they see that the father has no eyes, with gravestones instead of nails, Caesars eyes light up the names on the stones.
  13. mirrors

    I was sleeping on a mirror, dreaming about my drowned son when the tide came in carrying me out to sea. Finlay woke me knocking on the glass, was it his reflection or the tattoo of his face on my back that he saw?. Finlay appeared again in the glass at the top the tree he used to climb, he held a mirror with his face turned away in which his reflection was drowning, then the tree became wax but the fruit was real and vice-versa. angels climbed branches of frozen lightning placing synthetic tears on leaves helping me to rehearse this senseless grief, angels left a letterbox without a door and on my son's birthday the after-draft of wings flows lifting the letterbox to reveal Finlay's eyes.
  14. Lillian Bilocca

    Life below the water is drawn towards the suns reflection refusing to drown, waves are like the disparate pages of the city's history unable to create a seam, winds carry the skeleton of a dream towards a tree that grows eyes instead of leaves inside the mind of Lillian Biloca, enough eyes to see through the holes in the nets of fisherman, gathered to form a singular vision; working class forever drowning, bourgeoisie forever climbing. Lillian can hear the waters in a photograph sing for three sunken trawlers, their voices trapped, she ripped up the paradigm and raised them from the sea bed into a photograph. Lillian sailed with the moon and held it's anchor, the night made her captain, she then sailed the sun through Hessle road taking the residents into history to record the ascent on Parliament.
  15. Sappho speaks to women

    sisters sang a new womb into existence, midwife moon delivers scientists, artists, soldiers,identity's commute to advance a new sensibility in which the tree is borne out of the fruit, you scorn the misogynists salute. A tattoo of Eve adorns the moon's delicate wrist and for those equipped to see in her eyes there is a dreaming tapestry, an inventory of all my sisters dreams bandaging a bloody wrist with the sounds of war echoing in blood.
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