Doubt

Poets and writers we may seek to be-

But do we then lack authenticity

When each pearl’d drop of life is pooled away

And re-cast in cold ink on another day?

‘True’ living and recording will never quite chime,

Experience twists for the bard for her rhyme.

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Summer Moon Rise (Tanka)

Strawberry Moon rises

To the honeysuckle breath

Of a sultry dusk.

Rose and Jasmine twine sweetly,

Soft evening laughter ripples.

 

~Polly Oliver (2018)

Moth – a sonnet

 

Defined by its fatal desire for more-

Antennae ragged, blackened with the bright

And white-hot kernel at the candle’s core,

This soft-winged, heat-drunk warrior of light,

Charmed and enflamed by phototaxic lust

Re-gathers all its primitive life force

To smash its quivering body to grey dust

In its addiction-led, predestined course.

And just like them, though my own wing tips burn,

With junkie-esque predictability-

To your relentless, boiling sun I turn,

Flying towards destruction willingly.

Ash in my hair, my mouth, my bleeding eyes,

Dying to live within your fire the prize.

 

Polly Oliver -2018

 

Photo by Egor Kamelev from Pexels

Mask

 

Bit of a  ten minute-er , based on current mood.

Polly x

Mask

There’s nothing like old friends, or kids

to kick you hard, under the ribs –

evidencing, as they do

how much things change, and how much you

and smiling past selves have been lost

as ghosts; evaporated like tears.

Pretending to be happy turns you grey.

The mask will have to crack one day.

The desperate mirth of Comedy’s smile

tilting to Tragedy’s broken wail.

Shipwreck(ed)

Each cardinal point

Tells of Wasteland.

Primordial sand –

shifting under a frozen wind,

hissing with voices of spirits

shipwrecked on this skeleton coast,

rimmed by a glittering line of sea.

 

Here castaway fragments and relics

are spat after decades adrift

from the blue-throated Ocean

and maw of Estuary.

Husks of things rustle

with the dry scuttle of grains

at the foot of crumbling dunes –

Earth’s ebbing with each tide to feed

the ever-hungry sea.

 

Living footfalls trace this place of endings

with crunch of empty shell and crisp-brittle

crack of lost urchins:

Calcium Carbonate – chalk to dust

in a driftwood boneyard

where desolate roots reach, beseech

the pitiless sky, like the arms of a crazy woman;

a dinosaur rib-cage in each whitened heap.

 

But with each turn of a gypsy moon’s

round face, all is washed and re-framed.

Shell innards polished to spirals of pinkish pearl,

Pastel-shaded plastic tears pepper the edge of the world.

You see the broken beauties, pull them free

Fill your pockets and gaze on the skittish sea

That calls your salted blood.

 

Though you try to stay anchored

to land-stranded love

You’re already away;

barnacle-bottomed, horizon-bound.

New shores to be found;

The fall and rise of the Shearwater’s realm,

The call of the storm,

The lure of the helm.

Downs

There was only the sky-

clean as blades of sunlight,

scrubbed by paths of clouds

flung by the gale in its shivering joy.

 

There was only the answering sea-

purging snowy breakers to bound

towards an infinite ribbon of sand,

shaded to intricacies beyond depiction

for their exclusive appreciation

from that brink of earth;

sandstone ridge washed by time

and pooled by rain.

Heather-crunch of their running feet

stopped at the top,

stilled by the call of sky for sea.

 

It was only a moment

in that halfway place

between rock, air and water,

where all was sound, yet all was peace.

And wonder-

for the earth, and the other.

 

Polly Oliver 2018