LOSS

loss is gain is earth

is pain and sun is

rain is friendship dying growth is new is ground blue is meant for flying

death is newer fruit

is ripe and won is worth is sisters crying gratitude is found even in the lying

life is data search

is then the sum of panning for the golden new is lost and wound tighter than the runoff

right is wrong again

is still the burn off

on a friendless wind storm sisters soulless found nothing beats a sun roof

storm is calm again

is buried under

decades of intention

right is wronged renowned living neat living sound

living quiet dying loud

For B. For now. 4.22.16 nyc

PHOTO: Tim Tapling Moel Famau across the Marshes : Burton : Wirral : 29:Jan:2025.

I think of you

In the low moments

The space between torment.

I think of you

Like a list for the market.

I have that. Don’t need that

I must stock that soon.

I think of you

Eyeing that bloodline of

The red, red wine.

The glass like a broken marker

Of unsaid regret.

Coffee beans in Sambuca

Dark and perfect.

I think of you

I think of you

Fingers crippled into caves

Of unsure revenge

Covering the keyboard

Folded, dilated, saved.

Crossing the Rubicon.

Wearing the wrong shoes

For a miscalculation.

Does it count

When I am up late

Betraying those decisions

I made to choose.

I think of you in revisions.

I think of you

In stories once written.

The page like a nightmare

On its gentler way

Flying down slowly

To save a dark day.

Who makes the incisions

When friendship is torn

You think I’m wrong

I know

I know.

Does it matter

This blue unintentional

This sudden redeemable

This this uneventual

Collision of disregard.

I think of you even now

Conniving inspiring rewiring

Despairing on cue.

Foolish me foolish you

I know

I know

It’s battle fatigue.

Embraced at the airport

Like long lost friends.

You left me no choice but

To choose in the end

The history of one over

Small angers of another.

I thought you were bigger.

I thought you were tougher.

I’ll miss you for now

Never forget your voice.

It’s stuck in our song.

You have no choice.

Make the most of your secrets

skulls piled under lampshades

Rugs pulled from the eaves

of regrettable he-said—she-said

Another conquest will come

In a while.

Be safe little monkey

Think longer and harder.

Beware the pedestal

Reject the martyr.

Beware of the longing.

Remember the embrace.

Love yourself try harder or

You will lose the race.

I think of you often.

That will not be erased.

1.26.19 nyc

Photo: 8.17.2019 nyc

 

SIR SHADOW

Sir shadow, you drunk
Sir Shadow, you mean 
and crazy man
Sir Shadow, you hopeless shoe lacer
you angry defacer
Sir Shadow of mine
you black valentine
swing from the wing with a ghosty divine
Sir Shadow, you hopeless
reminder of loss
comic trickster of heaven
Byzantium’s loss is 
a place where nothing of import
gives into dull hymns
or nudged the sweet need of sorts
Sir Shadow, it’s now

in the cinnamon dark
when I drink to the owl
to the falcon, the lark
and the music still hovers
like a family of sorts
Sir Shadow, the sum of 
my disparate parts
gets childy and needy and
begs for the stars
the way to lace upward
the wayfaring boot
send me on to the place
and dig me my root

11.12.14

 

LISTS

people come

people go

lists remain

our blind farrago

algorithms

inner cracking sound system

bleed me

bleed my

love or defeat me

I have met that person

I don’t do autographs

but I am up for the duration

people come

people go

lists remain

our blind farrago

patriotism

secret weapon stashed within

free me

free the

horse underneath me

riding wild to reason

to a place unaware

of the knee-buckling seasons we share

people come

people go

lists remain

our blind farrago

somnambulism

eyelids lowered to the scrim

teach me

teach the

heart that belies a

beating past of war cries

in the thin underneath

of the root killing history we know

people come

people go

lists remain

our blind farrago

4.29.17

nyc

Photo: Tim Tapling Flaybrick Cemetery in the mist [2] : Bidston : Birkenhead : Wirral : 27:Dec:2024.

 

 

She was not a fan of

varnished poetry.

So much slid past her.

That reverie.

She preferred life’s boils

Bursting in mid air

When anyone asked her

That question.

nyc

Un Deux Trois 8.2021

Photo: July 13, 2021 nyc

 

sounds deep or shallow

under skies gone dark

that dog our heels

on a tenebrous path

that cause us to wheel

in fright or wonder

may be devil or angel

may be owl or lark

the presence of spirits

both wicked and tender

have roles to play

help us remember

we map our own paths

in darkness and light

night is only

one half of life

1.30.13

nyc

PHOTO: Tim Tapling

Sundown : Dee Estuary : West Kirby : Wirral : 30:Dec:2024.

 

Who is in danger?

Me and U says the pointy-headed horse

Of Medieval cloth

For a second you were the pegging thing

For a life time I was the withdrawal thing

We are both in anger

Wrapped in inexplicable danger

Disguised as only

the last true stranger

When the mask is discarded

Revision lasts only

Until the gun is reloaded

For the second you thought

Though I knew better

I dribbled the court

Around a face book letter

Though we both understood

what makes things better

I am drunk now

And I will sink the basket

you will retrieve and unasked

roll down the court

eye on the prize

I am drunk now

To you a good night

To you who appears in my wandering gloom

To you I invite into my insular room

Unicorns, like ghosts

offer magic in anger

My pen pal friend may we write for longer

Than life or death

Hunger or strangers

Who arrive at our door

Who sidestep the angel

For we are humans

Glad to entangle like

Deep ocean squids

Knowing the angels

That keep us alive

That make sure we thrive

This poem sucks

It’s late

This poem sucks

Don’t care if I’m late

This old heart rusts

A unicorn opens the gate.

 

4.27.19 nyc

Phot UES 10.20.24

 

IN BETWEEN

 

in between the in-and-the-out

in between the stop-and-the-go

the whisper the shout

a shoulder-forced entry

while eyeing the exit 

reason seek solace

the migrant regrets it

in between the in-and-the-out

I’m dancing like somebody’s

drunken reminder

my past or their future

such flypaper traps

keeps me hovered above

I don’t know what matters

I do know what loves

in perfect blood-splattered

space and time and anger and mold

rats and betrayal and centerfolds

those who beg mercy

those who are old

are the same are the game

of the lessons foretold

we don’t ever learn 

it’s a useless road

we don’t beg mercy we don’t share the load

rats and betrayal and centerfolds

sniff the lost, look for the found

beyond the cheese smile and the 

deathly confound

when we know that the worst

is within our grasp

then we know that deliverance

is a panic a curse

in between can be planning

a way out of the cask

red wine should flow freely

like blood from a gasp

I will never beg mercy

I will always ask

how to find the in-between

that safe place before

it all goes mean

shoulders are rolled

head thrown back

finding my way out of yearning

finding my way to the ask

 

2.20.16 nyc

PHOTO: Fenceline : Noctorum Lane : Oxton : Birkenhead : Wirral : 16:Dec:2024.

WOUNDED

I’ll walk among

the wounded

not for the pain

but the crazy

what’s left on remainder

a membership

in altered states

where I slip behind

purity gates

I’ll walk among the wounded

in a private country

no need to undo me

left behind from birth

for what that is worth

again and again

I will favor imbalance

life is so messy

like a ruffled valance

in an empty room

what do I choose

I’m a fake happily

in a real situation

and then painfully

when confronted

with creation

how do I manage

a lie over and over

I find the ones who know

when to discover

that water flows

that water will save us

the small in the earth

the deep in the well

I won’t beg for salvation

in a roomful of friends

or strip the lead

from the lip

pull the cork from revenge

life is imbalance

what I wish for is instant

what i get is

fame naturally

it comes from a distance

like a comforting film

arrives like a blister

a gift from the sun

I’ll walk among wounded

mystery’s sister

make me laugh now

make me sinister

be my friend through all winters

bind our feet together

trample enemies forever

walk among the wounded

discern the trust

walk among us

light footed

and make no fuss

9.27.13 nyc

PHOTO: Tim Tapling Dancing Fire : Raby : Wirral : 12Dec:2024. Click on photo for full image.

 

BICYCLE

 

so justly proud

she having scaled

that penultimate hill

not nearly the behemoth

that lay at the top 

of the park still

to be ridden nonetheless

her bike a new thing

a new old thing

rewind and new wind

how proud he was

of her persistence

what made him

love her in the first place

she started 

slowly

building to the rush

walking when

riding was the intent

pushing her resistance

up a hill

or two or three

she counted them

by their curve

their steepness

the distance to the 

traffic light 

at the top of the hill

she swore allegiance

to the hills

each one, one at a time

and then she talked

to her bicycle

spoke in a whisper

at first

tried desperation and

that did not work

she planned then

after each revolution

how her ride

in the park would go

the monster at

the top of the park would be ridden

she became her own

cheerleader

hoarse after a ride

after awhile

it worked she understood

the road and dips and 

what hills

required

what will

and after awhile

when she felt she’d

managed the 

overture

a heatwave

undid her

brought her back to

struggle and contemplation

she faced the hill and

said you do not own me.

 

6.21.12 nyc

Photo: Central Park 12.11.24

 

CLOUDS

clouds are fatty

clouds are lean

clouds get mouthy

sometimes grin

rolling across answers

like mealy-mouthed transfers

clouds lie cunning

clouds lay low

clouds know secrets

often sins

when shit reveals sacred

when silence grows greater

clouds are honest

clouds are thieves

clouds live den-like

sometimes leave

miraculous letters

when whiskered is fail-safe

clouds are trusted

clouds stay banned

clouds are silent

underhand

in penance for nothing

for no ruined landscape

clouds are bone-free

clouds of the wand

clouds hallelujiah

undermined

what’s happening this time

when we refused the sign

5.25.21 nyc

PHOTO: Tim Tapling Reprise : It's not unusual : Meols : Wirral : December 2023.