Lakey Comess

Through telescope darkly backwards

Anger is troubling, as is undercurrent of violence. Things fall apart on schedule,
masked people force their way through crowd. The rest is predictable.

Not every acknowledgement underscores love, but that isn't the point of your journal.

Attention is drawn away from motivation, personal record of daily medication.
Make an appropriate connection. I have no prescription to fill. Just lucky.

There are soothsayers and there are naysayers,
flowers in all of the vases, conspicuous shapes.

Magpies concentrate on finding food during the hungry season.
Hope rises in gardens, mends secrets, directionless.

Here is quality cotton rag paper ready for exhibitory folds,
revealing more than intended. You can envisage a future, pensively humming.
Turn enough pages and you will have no regrets.

Today Liberty shrugged off her shackles.
Tomorrow opens eyes to a distance, coordinates. Sorry. I've got to go.


It takes a lifetime


Meltdown appears to be the only solution, pillow, a soft option.
Putting on boots is a prelude to first step, stepping out.

I am tired of shenanigans, tantrum tempered by mood.
Depending on your version, do one of the following.
But that is too simple. It's easier to involve everyone else,
lay blame, without checking your settings.


It may take a lifetime, so I have been told,
but you can skip this step, do something else.


Light plays where branch blocks the sun.
Just look at the path where you walk. It seems to be dancing.


Stuck on neatline

I Marginal work

Given turmoil found in the center of sheet, best keep to edges,
where you are                thought (to be)                safe.

We are not always free to choose, rendering intimate service,
widening space, units of distance, circuitous consequence.
Hold fast to the brink, another limited surface.

Verges and boundaries draw nearer at your approach.
Proximity establishes a whole other basis to reinstate echo.

We passed through delineation obliquely.    Coordinates of memory,
magnetic flux distorting power of words, surged wild in every direction,
frightened into stammering moments, off-course in uncharted territory.

Hidden in lacquer box of fragility,  quiddity is mapping out lives.

II Contour of last exchange

Feeling nothing, something that isn't
                                              (slight tone of regret),
walk past an entrance, disorientated.

Forgetfulness blankets melancholy elevation.
There are plenty of distractions, temperatures rising or falling erratically,
sad news about old friends, reminders of mortality.

Roll out the cloth for the next map. There's no monopoly on refugee art.
We have all been there, haunted lives intertwined, worshipping ash, bones, artefacts.

Walk quickly through shadows, familiar perspective, first past the parallel,
feels a lot colder, icier horizon, less darkness than winter.

Spring sky folds under grey. Blue, over white wisps of inscription.

III Cardiotachometer

So much spilled paint. So many charcoal smudges, pin-pricks of ink, slashes, erasures, articulate conscience, ruthless legend, concurrence. Something's topographically amiss in figure-ground.

Mutual friends choose subjects, almost at random;
feisty, muscular organ given a pithy mention,
near infarction touched on in conversation,
as though that explained anything, emotional nature,
sincerity, change of affection, basic geodesy.

Cardioid motifs on stretched silk,
something to mark troubled, burdened state of mind.

Cards and spades, calculating long distance gamble,
drawing on past, distance. We ever wish each other no ill.

03/04/2012 & 04/04/2012

Lakey Comess, born U S A in 1948, has lived in Israel, South Africa and the Orkney Islands in Scotland and now lives in Glasgow. She has contributed to Versal, Big Bridge, Gulf Stream, Milk, Hutt, Otoliths, Hamilton Stone Review, Mad Hatters' Review blog, On Barcelona blog and others, publications, also as Lakey Teasdale.
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