Pete Spence

Between the Lines.

was that a nut falling or just
some collapse of air on the shelf
that has a little leverage
not the shelf but the air and it
won't be tied down hangs about
taking up space where it can
a mosaic shadow of breath

a ball of rain passes by rolls on
tightly bound to its last thought
germinating into tones heard like
a fanfare growing like suds taking
up distance a flock of birds might
fit making a lively hedgerow
as a task like colouring in
perfectly between the lines

Nobodies Dream.

foolishly the dream takes place elsewhere
has no-one to come home to has taken to
the greater outdoors that are on their way
somewhere at such a pace a snail passes it
a legion more snails follow coming out of
the only cloud caught on a low ridge line
that seems stuck in its own view of things
dreaming maybe of a valley full of fine ridges
undulating in a very watery way dripping
into a deluge of sand a few sand-traps linger
about where some older dreams are caught
some can stay there forever by reputation

A Long Dry Spell.

West of morning
well if the rain
was pouring it
would be nice
to get wet watch
the powdered
earth start
thinking of grass
but it is
raining elsewhere
further away
than memory
that seems to
float like a cloud
through the dry
edges of the air
where there is
always something
to storm about!



in this mist
a violin
is getting
a service
and some
new wheels
lets hear it
for a few more
concert miles


winter and the French
Horns walk in just
above the mud as it
moves on across the
plateau that grieves
for summer's shadows


well that piano
is depressed
the pianist is out
to lunch
don't panic says
the megaphone
he's using chopsticks!

Retina Scrape.

the wind steps up steps out
gets a little movement in town
the dry air is making sounds
like sandpaper on your eyes
our library is not orange! nor
is the moment i wrote that!
who are you said the soft rock
vague as this part of morning is
soft morning its leftovers growing
covering entirely the dawn
somewhere lunch is forming
the day is moving stepping out
sort of wins you over
as you step up to the plate


strange happenings among the ordinary facing me
some something's to make my day like nestling
harmonicas for a little chorus and some toe tapping!
i was fooled it's April and a few days in and April
is toe tapping down the street it's got a mind of
its own whistling up some fine shadows on the run
from the sun lurking in a part of the sky about as
out in the open as it could get that's the sun on
such a day with so much blue to move through
birds fly through it and so does April the day
is toe tapping on the birds whistling up a tune

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.

A collection of visual poetry, 5 X Y, was recently published by Red Fox Press as part of the C'est Mon Dada series.
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