Thinking In Poetry. Poem by Alistair Plint

Morning awakes
with personification
of weeping birds
and rays of
sunshine ballerinas on barre.
Traffic that roars
-lights that giggle.
Whilst pointsmen
at intersections
conduct
traffic orchestras
in perfected unison.

Lunch: a metaphore
of marble tiered
bagels
covered in
the thick blood
of tomatoes, flowing over
meat
- beaten to mince
rolled and smoothed
before a grilling
in basted, sticky sauce.

Sun-dials rotate
into long shadows
bringing
a lake of dandelion
tea, sprinkled in
rivers of dreams
ducks waddle through
flicking tadpoles
from webbed feet
in the dusky mist
ending the days
warmth.
Seeping through
unkempt clouds
covering a
crisp-blue-sky.

And you!

A conjured figure
resting
in my mind
since day-break, like stone.
Holding leather bound
covers
of a life story
we'll only remember when
the cleaning
and clearing
of the never written
-read everyday
in a simple walk
through
green grass, in a park.

A quiet seat
under a
larger than life
statue;
armed with
a journal
and fond
memory
surrounded
in a sea
of carnations...

whispering ballads
in the drafty
winter-winds.

And I fall asleep, in the imagery of dreams spoken in free verse.

Pen between teeth.


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