Ghost Moths

Ghost Moths

Sepia dawns October
that flower of dusk,
and his silver chest
holds frost fruits

under seas of sky.
Keys to shadows
lock wave and earth
where he tunnels

until

sinopia dusks June
that fruit of dawn,
and her gold chest
holds dew flowers

above skies of sea.
Shadows unlock
keys to clouds,
where she unearths

until

spinning paths
as autumn winds,
he climbs to
permanence in Oak

-spilt light,
unwrapping space
without
his wings girth

until

chestnut leaves
path cinders,
and she climbs Oak
leaving permanence

to fill space,
wrapping light
spilt, without
her wings girth

until

he flies into
the memory of silence
and returns
to underwood

wrapping his star to bone
as winter always begun.
With June his silver
brief dance will come

until

she flies into
the silence of memory
and returns
to underworld

unwrapping her bones as stars.
As autumns will come
to gold brief Octobers
her dance is always begun

until

ghosts will be real and Spring will be a ghost.

©KAM2013 (v2.21/11)

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Other Lines

Other Lines

In other
silent lines
full of the sea
of space
I know
what I’m listening to:

what I’m listening to:
are little silver fish
illusionary
as our silence
in schools of sparks
as if unending

balls bounce
breaking fins
into circles
that leap to locate
the end
of their endless

lines
shifting waves
of startled fish
always talking
only as fish can
talk of fear

and hope never
listens out
for fishing lines
breaking sound
from our deaf
talking hands

wringing water
into air
tarnishing
approximations
of new unities
of silence

of the old face
of every other
current

and talking.

(c) 2013 KAM (draft 1.16/11)

Posted in New Poems | 1 Comment

…for something different

‘….for something different’
(manifesto)

It’s not that the
clap of thunder
in a throat
turns its will to shout

Or that the laughing
fork lightning
of the Iris
is a lash of tales

It’s not that the
sparking pupil
must uncast
his master’s tail light

Or that the deeper
fish-tale scales
riddle to quark
quack into ridicule

It’s not that the
blackswan forgot
to duck her feathers
in the white-wash

Or that her new
wings fail to swoop
like a Lark in bones
break in metacarpus line

It’s not that sound
is meta for heart
or image is submerge
to parts

It’s shiver
quiver
quavers
silk
the
Shout
and
arrow

Time….

(c) 2013 K.Mansford. All rights reserved.

Posted in New Poems | 2 Comments

Will-o’-the-Wisp

Will-o’-the-Wisp

Oh foolish fire I will try I
to sense make sense
but why try why?

When I can flutter
but shutter Is to will iris
to ‘Follow’ Ignis fatuus

following the blind buses
clung to black cabs
circling here and roundabouts

Hailing
‘My kingdom for a tail light
tailwinds hail a kingdom of light!’

Where have the ghosts hidden
swollen with stolen shadows?

Under the shadow of your lashes?

Can you see the clowns
painting tears on the big top?

Is this their water for the Inferno?

We can’t drown the night circus
it will always remember how
to reanimate realms

into the age of snow
when pox and marsh were heat
and we believed

to be to be

fire for the future
not frost fairs dressing
days-in-pajamas drunk

by caffeine corpses
ink guzzling
wet Sunday crusades

receding into damp
words as peat
dribbling to fuel flares

abstracting concrete
distracting

cherry-blush cheeks lit
by the torches of clapping hands
consuming ergo’s iron-will-ironic

suspending into ferrofluids
full of fornicating egos rust
cancan red as wish magnet wisp

so frail in apps of mists
whispering show don’t tell
and travel thee all paths

to enlightenment of blog
because to know to ‘Like’
is to know why they

‘Like’ you
with the soul of the dollar
who never knows how

one flower can silence
the muse of an angel’s fall

because paper-plastic
dress up play
is the scoop of the swamp

thrust and cut bog spreading
sticky hits with just enough honey
thick on ever parting lips

and butterflies write scripts for the sun
and moths marry the moon to html

because all white weddings are white!
but who wants the paths straight?

the will-o’-the-wisp?

(c) 2013 K.Mansford. All rights reserved.

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Frozen

IMG_0729IMG_0727IMG_0725IMG_0728Ice Abstracts

the

shape of thought

thought shapes

the

shape of words

words shape,

frozen.

A.

moment,

moments

before

a

melt of another’s

eyes.

(all photographs/words by KAM)

IMG_0728IMG_0716IMG_0715IMG_0714IMG_0713IMG_0712IMG_0711IMG_0710IMG_0709IMG_0718IMG_0717IMG_0724(c) 2012 K.Mansford. All rights reserved.

Posted in New Poems | 2 Comments

The Butterfly and The Bottle

The Butterfly and The Bottle

I will not
sentence this

Glass ‘Definition’

to the sentence
just semibreve

shard place whole
how easy to mechanic

minim play
at the bottle bank

when a bottle
hangs a butterfly hung

accidental at rest
sharp on breaking

lip line

inside a mouth
upside down

sighing to crickets
with crochet teeth

her hips rip quavers
knit glass to air

pull off her wings
with dust definition

screaming fly
to breve

oo

I will not sentence this.

(c) 2012 K.Mansford. All rights reserved.

Posted in New Poems | 1 Comment

The Wayfaring Tree

 

The Wayfaring Tree

At wood edge
the air runs in ribbons
ties fraying leaf and limb
unties the bark and bone

Here she slips through
soft as yesterday
slides unglimpsed tomorrow
can you see her today?
or is it you or me
that ghosts
we honeysuckle scent
but summer night dew
of the ungrasped?

unchain her
she is
wayside mist

They say ‘She is Eurasian
the roasted moon
a cream-white
that hoverflies seek
in five star lights
deeper where her roots
shift old splinters black
she can hear past breath
and when her umbels lift
the sun starts to undress’

unclaim her
she is
wayside mist

He said ‘It is she,
who ripens Autumn
as she walks her
barefoot thoughts
her imprints lift
all song to larks
and words fruit green
to red to black
so the blackbirds
can redress their plume
where all mystery
untangles dead,
and only her ribbon hair
russets questions tangled’

unchain her
she is
wayside mist

She said ‘I can hear
all winter
in the chalk
our lost crest
seeps a strata skeletal
and this cold white sigh
is the sea that feeds
my life dreaming life

so

they say my
origin is unknown
but I know
I walked out of water
one foot of salt
one foot of rain
and still I walk
past to Spring
in the wood
again
                       again

unclaim her
she is
wayside mist

again
                      again

….so….

(c) 2012 K.Mansford. All rights reserved.

Posted in New Poems | 11 Comments