Pete Spence


Old Bit of Shade.

the day gone thinking about what to say to a gnat
it's on the tip of my tongue by the time i get it right
the gnat is in free fall somewhere else under a cloud
pirouetting on the etceteras of the wind that catches
the eye no pitter patter here but more like a piano
piece by Poulenc pedaling by keeping the idea
of calm at bay like the shadow of an aura sneaking
up on you at a very slow rate like a low stutter
semaphoring like a relaxed tapdancer thickening
in the temperate climax disturbing a few cicadas
as i lean against an old bit of shade taking it all in


Some Airs.

                                        maybe the air is self sufficient


     allows wind to move through it


                                                       even fills ditches


                                  leaving nothing disturbed  


                       never shattering against cliffs 


               always taking your breath away


  birds somehow  seem to find a way through


                                as i do walking towards that hill      

Shadowplay.

a late cloud! not even bothering to catch up
a note falls from the sky saying indelibly it is
summer the shadows keeping out of the sun
maybe i should do some shadowplay though
i'm more inclined to be lounging about and that
gets ingrained in the circumstances covering
the proximity stunned by an industrial sound
that thinks its a some sort of local charm growing
like a yeast on everything like the low sound of
the air breathing undermined by the vocalese
of a tree full of bugs rippling through it all



Cooee!

a few vagrant cooee's weathered into the day
sort of tumbling off the the last flesh of the tundra
there is a silence that is wadeable through
where January floats while waiting for a suntan
those fish are wearing sunglasses sincerely!

it's a school of fish under the bright lights
where everything is lit up as far as you can see
right on into the background of someone's thought
and feverishly far beyond touching on anything
that moves or anything that is unmoved by it all
like a slow smudge that gets on the nerves of nerves

every stasis is entangled stained as it leans
into the sediments of the day a sort of aura
you woke to some hours ago and nothing to do
about it but to watch it moving on there is no
chorus just the residues of vagrant cooee's !



Unsung.

some this and a number of that's
some of it may be useful or just another
fall out into tomorrow December 2nd
the year seems a little "unsung" while
i study how to do this's and that's!
like hammering clouds into usable sheets
stacking processed storm clouds into
a shed for another day helps for some
reasonable weather that floats around
knitted with sunlight





Pete Spence was born in 1946. He is a poet, visual poet, editor, and filmmaker, and has worked in various jobs to cover the ongoing deficit.
 
 
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