The Ramblings: One

Where does a story start?

Where does a story end?

Are questions, my friend, only to be answered

by the one who weaves all stories

(or unweaves them as we dream)

who runs our threads

through warp and weft

then -

tiring of us -

snips the thread.

The Where and the When

Dear reader, we meet

in a time and a place

But the where and the when of these?

Simply no trace -

for location - by convention -

is described with the eye,

and tonight we’ve been gifted

a turbulent sky, that

blocks access to heaven -

its sources of light

and without heaven’s halo

there’s no gift of sight

And though we can sense

the passing of time

there’s no point of reference

to anchor time’s line,

to anchor our hearts

to their time-bound beating -

Is there no where or when

for our very first meeting?

The Where

But soft, in this passage

details will emerge

with the widening of pupil’s

outlines once submerged - breach the surface

the night’s face,

(revealed of late)

consists of a palette

of charcoal

and slate

and there rising up from the murk of the sky: a tower

whose purpose is

hid from our eyes

But, our ears go a-searching

- while we are sight occupied -

for clues and they find these

sheltering inside:

hark!

the soft

tick

tock

of clockwork’s workings

Location: Clock-tower

Begs the question: the hour?

tick

But your face like the clock’s

being blind to all hands

must await the hour’s sounding

let

time

pour

her

sands

tock

The Where: Interlude

Oh, reader, while waiting

something I should mention

I know what this night holds,

fear not my intentions,

tick

are hopefully noble (enough) and can quell

your fear

when I say the approaching death knell

tock

is not yours

not quite

well

at least

not tonight

tick

tock

tick

tock

tick

The Reader-Response

Weaver,

(if that’s your true name)

as reader, I say, “Hush!”

there’s no need to sound the hour yet

I really see no rush

Leave, for now, that last tick

hanging in the air

the tock will sound out when I want

Yes, I’ll unite the pair!

This world is mine:

this bed

these covers

this lamp

this book

and (failing parental intervention)

time

I’ll close my eyes and

- resting my ear against that tower -

hear

not just its time

but that time - being mine

in which it’s nested

and if I listen long enough

tock

A Striking Clock

a pendulum freezes,

reaching its arc’s summit

then thaws in a flash

and a weight’s free to plummet

“Free at last!”, hear it cry

“Free am I from life’s drudges!”

But the escapement arrests it

the weight barely budges

and comes to a sudden and shuddering halt

the only freedom it owns is

the freedom of thought.

but -

within that last tock

the choreography of

gears, cams, and cogs,

changed its path in the clock

from the timekeeping chain

come mechanical stirrings

the meshing of movements

spawn clickings and whirrings

another weight waiting in anticipation

is unleashed like its sister to leap from its station

“Free at last”, hear it cry

“Free am I from life’s toil”

tick

but it too is arrested

chained up - remains loyal.

its energy’s - turned

into shivers and stammers -

take a well-traveled path,

at the end: a bronze hammer

which, raising a toast

to the triumph of time,

approaches its apex

and

forgets to chime

The When

the world holds its breath

click

but

click

fails

click

to exhale.

On Absence

A wheel for want of oil

voices complaints through its squeaks

A mute will conjures dreams in which

to power - truth it speaks

A widower sets a second setting

pours out tea and serves it cake

A child absent love will find this

in the hidden worlds they make

and this town,

knee-deep in sleep’s

snowdrift,

absent the hour of three?

Awakenings

Gram Wakes

and

- wondering why he woke -

waits

and listens

hears the unhearable

hears silence

Ms Kasz

conducts her unfinished

symphony

where notes burst free

from time’s meter till she

drops the baton

wakes

hears the unhearable

hears silence

Gram’s Dad

wakes to the mocking

of a bedside clock

and tinnitus’s taunts

mask the silence

———

Luce Wakes

the dashboard clock

change from 2:59

to 3

the backs of the heads

of her parents

droning

silence

The When: Interlude

Between three and fast approaching four,

our world will enter into uproar

but before we get to hear this roaring,

we’ve time left over for exploring.

So return to horizontal

your hyper-extended neck

we’ll trace this world’s horizons,

paint its lines in

give it depth.

On the fate of the weights (in case you were wondering)

these two siblings

suspended in time

in their upping and downing

doomed forever

to stitch the fabric of time

tick

tock

tick

tock

Exploratory the First

Those of you reading this under the sheets

being barefoot are able to sense with your feet

smooth-worn stones

bleeding the heat

from a day long gone.

But are your feet sure

these stones are found in

your immediate surroundings?

Well, absent a torch (or a walking stick)

The safest solution’s simple: Quick!

Take my hand.

Your tremorous digits reveal those doubts

that linger within you also linger without

But once more: MY INTENTION’S ARE GOOD!

Need I drag you through this neighbourhood?

The night’s showpiece draws ever near

and you being manacled with fear

have senses strung like piano strings

giving body to intangible things.

You raise your pace as we traverse

to that expected of a hearse.

What hovers at the edge of sight

growing in menace as in height:

Mad-hatted brigands wielding sticks?

A coven of witches astride broomsticks?

Fear not, the palette of the night

- now enriched with anthracite -

shades in more details, and hesitant walker

the truth’s revealed: all’s bricks and mortar.

Reassured, you exhale relief, then

FREEZE

at a sharply hissed and sinister sound

rushing in at you from all around,

and then you give a nervous laugh,

for it was only your rebounding gasp,

which too’s returned, and though its you,

its shrill mutations chill you through.

Ah-ha! You move less tentatively

But still too slow,

it’s ten past three and

what I want to show is fast approaching

No more delays.

No more slow-coaching!

Myth

Whether you believe it,

or consider it myth

that that legendary sense: the sixth, exists

it’s a fact upon which

your

goose-bumped

prickling-haired

back

sensing as it does

the presence of another

(a what

or a

who?)

insists

Exploratory the Second

With each step

the deeper darkness collects

and gathers like a wave

bears down upon the tightening harness

of fear that’s settled on your frame

it constricts movements - frees the brain

to entertain all mad suggestions,

and nag at you with troubling questions:

What, or who, will I meet?

And what, or who, do they eat?

A slavernous wolf’s muzzle

peeling back in a grin

to let you in?

Baba Yaga lying in waiting

your ears trying to unhear

her salivating?

And afterwards, my midnight sleeper,

will carrion crows peck at

your peepers?

You continue

cobble-wobblingly,

until

Your fingertips, trawling the air

establish contact -

and your hairs

stand up on end;

there’s been a pricking of your thumb:

has something wicked your way come?

This tension though, quickly released

no carnivore at you unleashed;

a muzzle does indeed await

but this one doesn’t salivate,

your outstretched hand being pleased no end

to trace the shape of man’s best friend

who’ll never get to gnaw your bones;

the poor beast being carved from stone.

You crab-walk left, your hand detects

another dog, noble, erect

You pause, you ponder, retrace a step

and from your arsenal, select

a sense you hitherto neglected:

that of olfaction, your nose directed

at the zone between the canine pair

where the flow of ozone-scented air

invites egress

which you accept

Sleeper, I return your hand

to briefly leave your side,

I’ve an errand to complete

as ever

let your senses be your guide

Brace Yourself

The darkness doubles and

your scuff scuff scuffing

becomes

SCUFF SCUFF SCUFFING

and under this shuffling

(by your spine’s divination)

the soundless stepping

of a who-knows-what-or-who

drawing closer to you-know-who (i.e. you).

What’s this wrapping soft-warm round

your ankles? Meow!

Reaching down,

you briefly brush

the soft black

(white, gray, cream, cinnamon, chocolate, orange, lilac-blush..?)

fur of a cat:

the incurious kind?

for it’s gone in a flash, but you -

presuming the cat’s a local and knows the local ins and outs -

pursue the furry purrer

(by virtue of that sound)

spreading your arms akimbo and

- steadying yourself

against warm-rough-stone -

semi-sure-footedly seep

shadow-on-shadow

towards a widening expanse of midnight blue

(infused with 3.17’s hue)

your hair wind-ruffled

by a gathering breeze -

whose susurrations promise freedom

and if not freedom

then at least

the sense of it.

Egress

The sky - freed from its gabled gaol -

now flown to greet the sea

rests upon that

formless mass

each whispers to the other

listlessly

[Point of elevation. The spit, where Spit-in-the-Sea gets its name from stretches off into the distance: a shadow cast upon a shadow. A set of stairs lead down.]

Down and Out

Down

Down*

Down

Down*

Down

Down*

Down

Ground**

The sky’s recaptured

the sea

a shell’s whisper

* Meow ** Purr

CONTINUATIONS

(miscellaneous texts: a peek at what will be included in the next update)

Low water

You recoil as our hands conjoin

(my errand done) I now enjoin

you to resume our duel surveying

which needs more grit

than you’re displaying

burnt crumbs, butter, apple, cabbage, citrus

vanilla, yeast rocket, sprouts

lavender, rose, cinnamon brine, silt,

cloves , and sandalwood bleach, and surf

ink, tobacco leather, paper

sugar, glue linen, wood

dust, must rust, dust,

mildew, rust mildew, must

bone, copper, sawdust green tea, herbs,

grease, turf grains, and earth

Bird’s Eye

Let’s follow the flight of this nightjar

As the fat moth evading its beak

skims up, up, up, up in evasion

Till cresting a barren high peak

Has nowhere to flee to; it’s then that

it’s snatched up with a brutal technique.

Snaffling it down, whilst flying higher

Looking down, as the world it knows shrinks

This black mass above which it’s darting

silhouetted against wine-dark ink.

Luce

Luce, stares -

at the backs of two heads

as fixed and immobile as headlights -

and that’s how it’s been now,

for how many hours?

this journey to nowhere, to Spit-in-the-Sea,

which, is somewhere of course, but

- of course

it’s nowhere that she wants to be.

A Campanologist’s Catastrophe

If a bell-ringer in their wildest dream, frantic

warned the world to flee

floods by ancients prophesied

and that time came

and those waters rose and swallowed up

the ringer

rope

his golden cups

drunken

distorted

drowned

well,

that’s how this knell would sound.