Fingerprints – Poetry

Fingerprints

By J. A. Weymouth

 

There is an indentation of the skin.

Deep, thorough as they carry deep, and true.

there is a changing in the eyes – precipitation, condensation –

mellow slumps of the lower eye.

 

She says it

‘s of the truer.

the stiller, still.

 

And less then woken.  The urge to move the glass lips onto the pale ones.

Such shaking and urging.  Thrusting deeper into the mouth.

 

Not so painful but rather an addition to the initial habit.

And yellowing of the printed inner bit.

corner, corned, the cornet.

higher yet.  but not so shrunken.

The Thimble and Me – Poetry

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The Thimble and Me

By J. A. Weymouth

 

There is a fundamental sense of loss,

Discredited, false, sapling mind that is –

too claustrophobic in its set of ideas.

 

An infertile thimble now stationed to toss,

Only, at the bottom end of it can I see

Some form of worth.

She takes every opportunity to waste life.

 

The tall one does not seek the knife,

Don’t misunderstand this as a euphemism for suicide.

 

Only luck can handle this.

 

And with an open palm

Can one hold onto the channeling of joy –

Such freshness is met by widened eyes.

This is a Red Night (Poetry)

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This is a Red Night

By J. A. Weymouth

 

This is a red night and

out of no where

two pairs of eyes meet.

 

Coffee stained glasses

and raised eyebrows

 

Applauded men

with white/left winged suits.

 

Freeways, miles,

and girls with boy-cut bobs.

 

This is a roaring night of dancing.

Key-board notes.

Old House – Poetry

Old House

By J. A. Weymouth

These nights are a high inside old buildings as their mortality weakens

they wake to a sadness, a persistent depression of red oak, soaked

in laughter.

Laughter is the memory.

What childhood lies here?

Chalk litters the corner of two rooms.  Simple.

And the hallways are riddled with hooks and screws.

Stains of an aged dust outlines particular squares on its walls while

Mother draws back the curtain.

Sunlight is emitted as the house reawakens.

Only to realise it is empty.

But nothing is empty.

Memories are pressed like flower petals in a book.

The book is still here

remembering.

Hopes and Fears – Poetry

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Hopes and Fears

By J. A. Weymouth

There was something

lost in that sigh.

A paramnesia of windows shutting and

light closing began

in the wake of ideas.

 

Too far lost those ideas tread

(and they don’t remember their true beginnings)

so far away taken, over long shores and hopes, were they.

 

Corrosive/archaic from water.

Water is the fearless patient.

 

What is this wistful feeling?

A searching/yearning/wanting of the things that have passed and have not come.

All that has taken the hand.

 

Beyond question/reasoning to believe that place is only home,

but that home has become corrosive!

 

The head, like the hand, has been taken somewhere

away – mingled by the strain of ideas and journey seeking –

living in that false reality.

 

And I believed in that fantasy.

Hope has taken my hand.

Blood Red – Poetry

Blood Red

By J. A. Weymouth

 

The murmur is red.

Drowning red.

The deep crimson of sour instinct –

Pursing those lips.

Pulsating blood in the current of life.

 

Your life is drowning.

You look at two faces and see one paler than the other.

Sweat

Heat

What is it you see?

Nothing but the basic, all naturel.

 

You pick up the cloth

it is red

made of silk

but you do not use it

because you are scared of the dirtied eye

scared to hide it behind the silk cloth.

 

Tolerant hands tremble

reaching out.

 

The blood is red.

All bodied blood.

 

There is nothing frightening behind skin.

The Night Drips

The Night Drips

By J. A. Weymouth

 

The night is dripping

Soft melancholy

of the night.

 

Soothing thoughts of nightmares weep for better words.

 

The nightly whispers.

Red roses are not thoughts.

that sparkle sound

that shines

is dim in the dark.

 

And here I am sitting/waiting.

 

Quiet lights put pressure

on the mind,

while speechless/sensless

I am driven to a quiet world.

 

There are many whispers in the dark while I search for it.

 

A knowing.  A caring.

Distant.  It sits still.

 

What am I in that dark place?

 

That night drips

and I float alone

with soft words of reason.

 

Quiet words they are.

Quiet.