Pete Spence

Open Studio!

unfolding the landscape is the only thing keeping you busy
putting everything in its place keeping the unfamiliar aside
until spaces occur pleading for some part to play under
the reckless clouds colliding with each other strands of wind
slowly come together and the trees are moved you must
remember to lengthen the shadows as the day goes on
but right now you are toying with the question "is there time
to rest?" apparently not as you keep finding finer points
of the landscape that need adjustment remember to erect
signs around unfinished areas warning the sightseer or
the unwary of the adventure they are letting themselves in on
you discover some earlier decisions seem totally wrong and
almost your undoing staying true to the colour chart is advisable
to get the tone as close to the thought as it occurs mapping
follows like a shadow soft at the edges hardening at depth and as
you proceed more onlookers gather critical amused and stunned!


well i was thinking
about Upper Swabia when
i stumbled over a life-sized
pretzel stubbing my toe

who is that giving
the pretzel the kiss of life
as i limp off into
the freshly painted distance

it was as if night fell on my foot
and a rose dropped from
my startled mouth and
shattered on the pavement

and a cleaner rushed in from
the Urals or the Outer Hebrides
or from around the next corner
sweeping away the bloodied rose

as i continued to unravel
across the cautious air
like an orchestra fleeing
melting in many directions


you should be asleep
not trotting through
the Hymns Of St. Bridget
the beyond umpteenth time!

though darkness
isn't noise an aroma
isn't solid

i'm safe! my bedside lamp
keeping the pages adrift
before my eyes...indeed both
of them entertained!

a little sanity washes up
at the edge of the light
it is not the kitchen sink!

there's no tap-dancer on the sink
lugging some pavement pas de limp!
an horizon is out there somewhere

wanting in!
more folly
less fear

Perfect Space.

the sound of spilling china

a shovel leans against a wall

it may not be the perfect town

a bus arrives spilling shoes

so much spilling fills the silence

until it is a giant cube

is this a formula for hiding sound?

the town evaporates leaving a perfect space

Pete Spence was born in 1946. He is a poet, visual poet, and filmmaker, and has worked in various jobs to cover the ongoing deficit. He is currently retired from work but not from any of the above.
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