David Sutherland is lead editor for a publication called “Recursive Angel” which looks for poetry, fiction and art on the net. Additionally, He has had the good fortune of seeing his own works in a number of publications with recent pieces appearing in “The Trincoll Review” and “The Poetry Forum”. David is a member of “The Academy Of American Poets” with his first book of verse due out early next year.
SUBITO
Tense the little muscles that
pour over shedding locks of
undisturbed hair and
pure and bright are the
vast energies that rise
to a setting sunset
at days start,
and days end.
Burnt magentas’
drawn like lips in silence.
Wilderness, desert, depth,
a whole canvas of fears shed to
an eternity and coined
to a calendar finishing month.
And cold,
cold the sharp porcelain of Winter
bluff and crags of
unfinished..months
Months
before Springs’ navel rings to count its
rinse of tears on stone and
marauding ephesias twitch indolence in the
eyes of sudden..Life
Life,
fierce your almost
tangible bliss of
soft,
softly spoken words.
BALD-POINT
In spite of the
many parts moving,
rolling joints wrapping-up
Life’s dull expressions in
quiet dismay.
There are
shortfalls,
hairline cracks of
sudden un-becomings,
alignments shot in geometric clarity,
to the perfect angles of
cause-effect which
balance nature on reality’s Mean as
concrete actualities subsume this
fragile framework of Mind.
And Mind has
no edge against
rigorous calamity,
naked shock.
This thing is perditious judgement goes bereft as
sadly we slip, slip, slip on
insignificant signs whose
turing valves vent in force then
bloom and
Boom! similarly
your lack of warning, bravely my refuse of knowledge
irrelevant,
its done.
EROS ELUDED
Vague the threat of consciousness
muffled words,
pretentious sounds,
choke-starts failing as ambitions’
misplaced hopefuls orphan-bound.
And ears that hear close in dissension,
and eyes that see cut back in spite,
as breath like stones
fall on each other
discord(cord) alibis soft lies;
Remain(main) chasten to the body
This moon heaves crescents to my side
a frailness wells is lost to recall
interned tonight;
they burn a candle
purports wind to scattered ash
seal the veil of sensuality
in mortared eyes of pebbled glass,
with skin soft paper apparition
skull like trophy on its side
shape lips, soft voice and broken symbols
fare(well) in time.
Soon, Worlds that spin,
spin in contrition
and dream like mist,like rain, subsides
as pangs like teething lose their comfort,
evade this silent passerby.
MINERVA IN PASTEL
Her dark-tweed matte lay
frame to searching eyes,
words canvas almost speak
across beige mottled isles.
of weave or hue, birth lines
A sentinel guards waste
forth form, pastel and lace.
Minerva, all we know
takes hint between each tone
sad glimpse into your smile,
and colors you..
in stray magenta’s,
auburn lights descending crowns.
Life colors you,
in rouge and charpet
paramours and stifled loves,
the lockets’ blush on flesh cool tinder,
the song of thrush spent on a winter,
a wanton lover, near
and unheard
colors you.
NULLIPARA
Life is
beating a fast retreat this winter
behind bluffs that bleed thin are
highs scattered behind grace,
receding, receding,
I lisp into suicide
lash out in daze,
then
Scorn these organs..
belly and groin grow
bloom on opposite walls of steel;
stuck in an off-sided game of trump.
And to soon I become loom,
hung on cottoned apparition,
eyes railline, teats votive,
fertile for a pretty boy
or a kill or
another grind of promise…
to pass me by.
CAROUSEL
Tour of force is a breeze lifting the gauze
of wound cooled by contraband.
And wars’ never;
and peace never,
makes mirth or
sense the ground
rising up in jump
rope
rhythm,
bleating out these
mournful skies over
hop-scotch fields,
quilted daisies,
blown crazy eights.
And hope’s never;
and dreams never…
Circummure poles,
spill out from tight
circling currents of
desperate mass.
Canvas of flesh,
sphere of illusion and
lilly and cholera and laughter and bedlam,
ever-thickening yoke
hold me.
And lifes’ never;
and loves’ never..
EMPTY PAGE
Like a medieval monk on manuscript,
or French novelist
quick and fluent maneuvers up sen-
tence. Hind right on balcony,
sorting through pieces of colored glass,
note by note and shape by shape of
written word..
Never a writer would pen
Flaubert, Bovary, Plath whose
poisoned tongue sought immortal passage.
The engineered page
swears fanatical control,
as passion or dream – drives,
devours metaphor and
surely this outworn image
finds me lucid in it throes,
seduced to catch a feeble phrase which is
somewhat wrenched on return as
a lifetime of poise melts in
a brilliant conflagration
transcribed in sparks.