M J Carpenter
M J Carpenter Poems
Breathing Space
He punished his feet up and up the tall hill with the woolly weather hat.
Turning a little, He breathed the secret air that shyly danced around him.
...
Ah, but the buzz passes quicker than
A wasps wings whizzing by an empty glass.
It’s the effect stupid, and it seeps in deeper
Than blood. It hit’s the head first,
...
Being is. No simple universal category
Its meaning lost in an ancient allegory
The question lost through the march of time,
That which bursts forth in every rhyme.
...
I feel the cool winter creep at the end of my nose
On the sheet laid street, beneath my now made calves feet,
As I stagger in unsure awe, at the milky sky, that bore a frozen fruit,
Where this seasons loot, sank, as endless butter flecks dowsed
...
Early morning blues
So bright in their urgency they are a crisp neon
As I spy the pillow end, when eyes like lion jaws
Open in anger.
...
M J Carpenter Biography
Contributer to original poetry site www.menshallknownothingofthis.co.uk. Has been writing poetry since 2009, Work covers wide range of areas, inspired by local moorland philosophy and modern Britain.)
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Breathing Space
Breathing Space
He punished his feet up and up the tall hill with the woolly weather hat.
Turning a little, He breathed the secret air that shyly danced around him.
Here he stood: where the golf ball moon was a ghost behind a thick cloud wall.
His head shook. He took in too much unmapped, and vague England.
Spying a blurred line, of unknown height, he asked himself-
‘what truly is the highest point? Where to see the heath laid vistas? ’
The sole grouse shrieked and split in two, or three, becoming a slender flock
Fading like that question, and answering back.
He translated:
‘The heights are for the rocks and wind, to wear away for endless ages’.
At once he knew. Here, where the mobius stream rattled, glugged on melted snow,
Silence was an old worn vow, broken only by animal kind,
The seldom cries and wails, from the herds and birds and the sad horses in the field.
Yet he smiled, through his dry creased lips, and thought to himself:
‘My home’s not here where the purple heather laps the green mint puddles.’
‘A land alien to its self. Beyond purpose, other than to help me breathe.’
The battle on the eyes and mind had faded.
He turned on his weary axis, back beyond the drizzly moor garden.
He went on along the road. Towards the lines and grids of home.
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4/23/2024 12:15:25 PM # 1.0.0.1119
