memoirs, art and fragments by Thomas Milner

Posts tagged ‘poem by thomas milner’

Dream

I awake at tap on door

From an unfinished dream

already half forgotten

I reach back down

To clutch at the vestiges

Flailing after its tail

The beautiful symmetry

The perfect logic

The engagement

So good

Oh so right

Dreamworld in the

Subterranean labyrinth

Of my subconscious

The evanescence

Of my now totally

Forgotten dream

I’m left with a fleeting

Taste of regret

CHASING A DREAM

I hear voices

I hear voices which caress

Like a breeze whispering

Across a field of lavender

In fragrant Provence

 

Alluring voices inviting me

To dally in shaded gardens

Being served chilled sherbet

On the banks of the Nile

 

Firm vibrant voices

Calling me back to the meadows

Where I ran riot in my youth

And dreamed of butterflies

 

Voices that pierce my skull

And jangle my bones

Voices drained through

A bucket of rusty nails

 

Voices that are like

Broken violin strings

Twanging back

Who strangled the cat?

 

 Whining voices

Rasping voices

Truculent voices

Plaintive voices

High voices

Low voices

Strong voices

Weak voices

Old voices

Young voices

Nasal voices

Throaty voices

Voices from the past

Voices from the present

 

I hear distant voices prophesying war

I hear muttering in the mountains

And wailing in the streets

 

I hear clear well-modulated voices

Cogently explaining the

Dimensions of disaster

 

But most of all I hear my own voice

A lonely narrative

Echoing through

The chambers of my mind

A screaming rant

In this alien place.

DREAM OF BUTTERFLY - PAINTING by THOMAS MILNER

DREAM OF BUTTERFLY – PAINTING by THOMAS MILNER

The texture of memory

THE CAT AND THE BOOK - PHOTO by THOMAS MILNER

THE CAT AND THE BOOK – PHOTO by THOMAS MILNER

The cat and the book

Bask together

On an old railway sleeper

In the warm sun

I feel the warm splinters

I smell the hot tang of the wood

I hear the cat purr

This is the sensual

Texture of memory

Quack quack

His mind is full of junk

Scraps of half-digested information

From third-hand sources

A dash of religious bigotry

Seasoned with cliché-ridden

Commonplace ideas

His understanding of

The planet and universe

Has inconceivable voids

His rare excursions

Into abstract thought invariably

Produce utterances both

Risible and ridiculous

In short he has the depth

And mental clarity of a

Small puddle in the road

And the intellectual weight

Of a poppadum.

old macdonald hat a farm

Old MacDonald had a farm
ee-i-ee-i-o

And on that farm he had a duck

ee-i-ee-i-o

With a quack quack here

And a quack quack there

Here a quack

There a quack

Everywhere a quack quack

Old MacDonald had a farm

ee-i-ee-i-o

(If there were a quacking event

In the Olympic Games

He would stand a good chance

Of representing his country).

Bark bark

Bark on, sister, bark on

At the aged creature who dithers

Listless all day in a mental fog

Who’s queued all afternoon

In a gloomy crowded room

 with a thousand years

Of spent humanity

Nodding off in front of

The stultifying crassness

Of daytime TV

Whiling the long hours away

In senile topor

 

Suddenly whirled into tea

Mashed up dried biscuits

In an oversized heavy cup

Of milk or tea

Or milky coffee

Dunking bread

From time immemorial

Into the turgid liquid

Dazed and confused

Harried and hustled

Hectored and admonished

Muffled shouting

Hardly reaching

Into damaged mind

And broken memory.

 

Bark on, sister, bark on

But consider this:

Nothing divides you from them

But three odd decades.

Your present is their past

Their present is your future.

Wordlessly searching

Where would we be without speech?

We’d get by thanks.

 

Where would we be with only few words?

As a fallen leaf

In the autumn wind

Flabbergasted

Dancing and swaying

In the equinox

With no direction home.

 

Where would we be with no words?

Dished

Sunk

Undone

Helpless

Non-plussed

Stuck

lost

BENDING SPACE – PAINTING by THOMAS MILNER

 

Don’t you just hate it when

Don’t you just hate it

When that cheeky

Chirpy little guest

Uninvited but tolerated

Lodging in your attic

Weaving his nest

Hibernating the winter

Harmlessly slumbering

Unobtrusive

Unassuming

Unnoticed

Suddenly awakes!

 

Morphed into a

Lumbering bully

He moves down

A floor wedging His bulk

Back to the bone  

Nudging and pressing

The complex software

The control pilot

The precious jelly

Of my brain.

 

And now the tender thoughts

The subtle arguments

Will be from my skull

Untimely ripped

And the interloper

Plucked out

Leaving blunted edges

And blurred prospects.

 

And don’t you just hate it

When the breakfast cereals

Go soggy

In your

Painted

Bowl.

ART-WORK by THOMAS MILNER

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