Lighthouse

La Jument, photo by Jean Guichard 

Before I open my eyes

I hear the call of waves,

the moan of timber.

I had forgotten there would be gulls,

the innocence of sea air

on my pillow.

It breathes differently, virginal;

never inhaled

by anyone else.

I consider drowning;

I don't cry out

or wave my arms.

There is no anchor;

sighs from my lips and nose

rhythm the stillness.

The keeper stirs;

tends the flame; ensures

a safe and pleasant passage. 

tk/January 2014


Beautiful read by R.A.D. Stainforth ... looking a bit lighthouse keeper-ish ...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group

Latent Image

Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas 

It develops in the bath;

smears mirror steam,

births metallic

in crumpled waves

of toothpaste tube.

I watch it thrash;

to cling to others,

push them under

and climb on top

in order to be rescued.

It does not drown;

settles under gelatin lids,

struggles to evaporate

before the fixer

dodges and burns.

tk/November 2013 

Excellent, thoughtful read by R.A.D. Stainforth...in his black and white world...

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

Cross the Bridge

I contemplate waves,

skip stones in your eyes,

wade past the shallow parts.

There is no need for old north boats,

since we have uncovered

our own safe passage.  

Baggage drowns in the current;

a selkie dons my wedding veil,

wonders at so many shoes.

Spoon the rest of the journey;

give in to the tug of gravity,

the low ache that drops like stone.

A stormy berth is best, even though

you are too civilized for thunder.

tk/August 2013 

Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth, taking time from his holiday in Shetland to read this poem.  

photo by Elena Kalis 

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Atlantic Waves

(Thanks to R.A.D. Stainforth ... with a small contribution from Amy the cat ...)


In the space between the crash

and pull of this wave,

I give you a landlocked heart,

chest deep, tumbled

incandescent as sea glass.

Turn it over,

examine it

in the palm of your hand.

See how important it is,

how far it traveled.

Press it

to your lips,

feel the soft-spoken stone

whisper bottle green

in your listening mouth.

Let it dissolve whole,

release the saved-up thirst,

the delicate, jellied passion.

All you hear is the sea.

Nothing else matters.

tk/ March 2013

Meal Beach, Burra Isles, Shetland by Robin Gosnall 

  Join Magpie Tales creative writing group. 

The End

R.A.D. Stainforth moistens dry words on the page...

I am the last

walk with you,

watch gulls hover,

cry sharp in habitual air.

Fingers in my hair,

you crown me

lover of the end ―

all previous castles

now wave-washed clean.

Already grown full,

there is nowhere else to grow,

but with you ―

legs stretch out,

like pink-colored wings,

rearrange the passage

between.

tk/November 2012

Squall, 1986, by Andrew Wyeth

Join Magpie Tales creative writing group.

Pearl

R.A.D. Stainforth in his black and white world...and so on...

Waves come
out of nowhere,

swirl before

I can steady myself.

You pick me up,

hurl me hard,

somewhere far,

deep as Shetland,

where I land

naked on a beach,

a clam on the sand,

heady with the scent

of seashells, swallowed

in chowder come.

tk/ August 2012

Join The Mag creative writing group.

image by Francesca Woodman

Rivers

R.A.D. Stainforth rusticating at the River Irwell...

Yours is elegant,
Limpid in hairpins;

Addressed formally,

With a proper honorific.

Mine is a turgid native,

Wild story-teller,

Straight as an arrow,

Called by her maiden name.

Both channel to mouths,

Hungry for an open sea;

Fresh tongues craving salt,

The mutual waves.

tk/May 2012

image: River Irwell by R.A.D. Stainforth

Join The Mag creative writing group.