stripped bare...
when you tread upon a stage you are naked
but wear the cloak of another's words
when your own words are read on the page
there is no cloak...
beachcombings (i)...
the storm brought fresh stories to the shore
and the driftwood moved on
the sun bleach forced its fire to the sand
and the driftwood moved on
the wind blade tore into the dune
and the driftwood moved on
the sea swell engulfed the beach
and the driftwood moved on
the storm brought fresh stories to the shore
and the driftwood told some
shadows...
The man approaches an open doorway
that leads to dimly perceived shadows.
Peeling paint exposes bleached
edges on the panels of the door.
It hangs from the bent rust-laden
iron of its one remaining hinge.
A collection of tin cans in a heap
props the once-welcoming portal in
a permanent, disturbingly human, slouch.
It is, perhaps, the spirit of the old bothan’s bouncer,
guardian of illicit pleasures once enjoyed within.
Its drunken, lurching, seedy menace
is well-matched to the man himself.
The stench of mustily morose furnishings
draws the man towards its almost-sweet
mixture of damp-slimed paper, rotting wood
and stale sugar-drink. Shadows swallow him.
* Links -
http://berneraybardachd.wordpress.com/
www.facebook.com/padruigmacillechiar
and
www.goodreads.com/author/show/6885355.Peter_Kerr