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John Easton
I have been writing poetry in earnest since about 1995 – thinking it, however, since my earliest days! For me, a satisfying poem is more than a series of impressions. Each element must work towards a whole. The senses might then allow that something "true" is coming over.
See also the Live Literature Scotland Database at www.scottishbooktrust.com
Poems
WORKING VESSELS
An old shrimp boat has strayed
down luckless channels.
Three other craft are high and dry,
decked with mould, instead of light,
and torn Confederate flags;
for them there may be no way back,
hawsers in the undergrowth,
masts wet fingers in the blow of progress.
For the lost one there is hope
that it may turn, and be replenished.
We are not immortal,
yet the ocean pulls as one:
this is the line to sail my friends
as far as the eye can see,
red and green markers,
squares, triangles,
out through the Gulf of Mexico;
our finest catch awaits in thermal currents,
nets awash with colour once again,
that pink we thought impossible,
except in Sun Coast skies,
and rare flamingos.
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CHOICES
Blackened bark, a thunder cloud descended.
Dough-soft drumlin, drawing in and through a mangle.
Lightest architecture, fluted, ancient wind within its tunnel:
this is where I met you – in a hollow on a flotsam shore,
avoiding other drifters along the forest sea,
dark, yet less mysterious,
gnarled, yet set in ways more finite.
You, Bamboo, are the one who picks me up –
every time I hold you in my hands.
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THANKSGIVING
Back in The Day,
before his pinball Star Wars faith
beefed up all his thoughts,
he – perhaps – would let his mind run free:
Mississippi cruisin
crackin packs of Buds,
college days in the Ivy League
wearin baseball caps back to front,
Mom makin pecan pie, or was it pumpkin,
Pop, with me sittin on his knee,
tellin us all how he flew in the war,
'war with capital, W'.
But then,
one September –
many months ago –
morning carried Nightfall.
And all those trauma children
still unsighted –
president, and pressgang,
un-wrapped from their crimson swaddling cloth,
bandages like poultices
have sponged away their eyes –
they tap their sticks for black and white
and grope around for gold rush.
Thank YOU Star Wars mothers!
You have raised the stakes
at distant quarter moons,
and crosses lie beneath your desert home.
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CERTAINTY
She'd wanted to be absolutely sure –
needed to be certain
like fingering wet paint
despite the don't touch signs.
Thirteen dates she'd had with him,
it said so in her diary.
Not that she was superstitious,
but she had to check it out.
Rolex and Red Braces
was how she'd come to picture him,
his wallet like an honour badge,
a right of way, a get out clause for hurts.
But here she was,
rising to his office in the tower,
try the handles of the doors another time,
rubber stamp her lonely heart he's not the one.
The elevator floated up forever.
Might this building reach the clouds?
She was high above her people in the park,
higher than the lightning rods.
She would go down again with him,
just as had been planned,
into that other swirling sea,
breakfast – and an interrupted kiss.
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SUMMER WOMAN
Sunshine and your face –
the summer days and you were one.
I see it all again in memories:
smiling warm, they won't let go.
Now it is the autumn, and I can no more hold you
than catch the end of fleeting rainbows.
Burning dazzling star, now you pull in other orbits –
once upon a time, you drew me to your molten core.
This little planet slowly turns to ice
without your constant gravitation.
I am unsustained,
while light is shone on every passing body.
I head towards the darkness and the cold,
but looking back is in my heart:
I still love you,
summer woman.
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PLANET TORTURE
B&Q city
glazed extensions
coldsore smile, and look the other way.
Barbecue country
wired wheels
melanoma blush, and don't you notice?
Urban gut-spill –
visceral leak –
unclosed hara-kiri.
Orange moon
shining back
reflecting broken rhythms.
And then one day it happened:
planet
charred
due to our deep trance,
holds its mountains down beneath the oceans.
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THE DAWN
My love and I break free.
We're on the beach, it's quiet.
We cup our deafened ears to trumpet shells –
and listen to the present.
We amble on the shore,
through old rope and razor blades.
The tide exposes empty bottles,
ineffective eye glass.
We resolve to squint towards the dawn
and overcome the minus.
We pick up time and place
and look across the waves with golden rings.
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