Lost weekend

Another lonely night in a lowly cabin,
Eyes waxen in the candlelight –
Overlooking charts and plotting.
Thinning hair combed back toward a weathered neck, itself
Reaching from a white collar
Heavily patterned with salt and faded lipstick.
A wife and children left behind –
Two buoys, bobbing,
Eager of his return…

But!
Another woman’s current;
She, in a blue-green dress, floating in dance
Him, racing over her
Dreams carried on the whispering wind
Filling welcoming sails, taken as a tonic
A towering Spinnaker, up and yonder;
Distant

There is little time to think big of much else,
Is the company of the sea enough to an Island?




A.T.

A room with a (re)view

Joseph Dunn
w/ Danny Brooks on Drums
The Chichester Inn
22/03/10

Voices at a murmur, soft, but continuing. They are trying to speak to one another, but stand underwater and incoherent. Finally they find themselves rushing from behind the onlooker, trying to catch up.
In front, above the rippling water, on the raw, earthen shore, stands Joseph Dunn. With little movement he works away, calling tradition to aid him. With a new tool comes a new dimension; a drum adding the heartbeat for the soul of the voice. Cymbals treading water, gently splashing in the River Adur, like children enjoying their last moments before the sun’s descent. Then, across from the bank, in the lowly fields swoops strings caressed. Complete, it is nurtured to form rich speeches before battle; before the shot of the snare, before the rising notes flying from six bows of Nomads, before the swooping call of the man who stands before them, all in a gaze.
Below, quietly, the audience float in the beauty of his sound.



Adam Thomas

To be lost (in the Garden of Earthly Delights)

As lids close against lights on distant shores,
Wrinkles stretched to a blink.
A whimper against ill-fitting shoes and staggering,
Across the grass to nowhere... anywhere.
Seven bags held close by various limbs, weight down his thoughts,
Revolving around the battle with the day (the biting wind)
Clothes discoloured and worn, threads torn (chewed at)
And he, only an apprentice of age,
Vexed with problems too deep to tell,
If, I, you, and we - from anyone any answer on him would likely befell?

And then he stopped in front of me,
And I could do nothing but stare.



A.T.

Through the lips of the watering can

My promise to you -
Watered by many tears,
To grow to fruition,
Dizzy-heights
Then we will lie back, rested.
Hand, in, hand,
Forever.



A.T.