Richard Blanch Poems

A shape of quiet suggestion shines
Alone along the twilight field
Holding the darkness back awhile
Burnishing memory’s faint sheen.
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Like a dormouse he slept
Outside light was falling
On discarded bars
Of steel, on melted tar
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Why are the hills like your forehead?
And I see your eyes in the stream
And a long curving line
Of hills in your spine
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A metrical exercise and a Greek memory
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To weave about an eye
A dream
Forged in a sigh
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(I’m really sorry, JK.)

Up the stairs, his brain flushed with blood, the young buck
Had sprung, scarcely breaking his tread. Luck
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One word has had to be represented by its initial letter ‘b’ to avoid the poem being taken off again. I think anyone can judge what it should be. It rhymes with the penultimate word in the line above.
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The Beneficent Master of Fruit and Wine Roams the Enchanted Geography of Orchards and Vineyards. An Ode to a Fine Palate and a Connoisseur's Knowledge


Here inside, electricity, out there, evening
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In brightness ideas came. Unsure, she sniffed and prowled,
Nosing, smelling, scenting their essence. They stood proud,
Significant as an article without its noun;
Barely quivering as she prodded, goaded. Something she’d found
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Arch djinns of soft darkness, nonchalantly, filling shaded eyes
Angle moving limbs; stretched tendons, a careless jutting hip, careful poise
Healing distillates of midnight welling up from every pore
Spill with every gentle lash’s blinking.. Arcs of effortless lore
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