the PenDragons are poetry’s
rough hewn ships on the tide of life
casting inky anchors deep,
diving minds for matter,
sifting happenings for collateral
worthy of our keep.
We make no promises
seaweed catches on our bows
best intentions dashed
by errant storm, becalmed
by sleeping muse,
yet still compelled, we push
through ode and villanelle
divining subtle truths.
From this stricken bridge, our pickled Lily
is a ragged and a snarling twig
stuck fast between grey stones.
Whilst all around
cross Eddies feud and weave,
she brooks her gall, suspended.
Who knows, should snagged forgiveness
truly rip and run again,
the river, reprieved, may turn to smile,
and Lily’s spoiled white lips
would twist and split: a pretty boat.
Her veil, pulled low to save that petalled face,
could raise into a hopeful sail
and pistilled spirit bend and dip
to fast row Lily, blemished but aglow,
to steep her days without bondage and regret
in turbulent regatta.
Conjoined by circumstance, we were as twins,
collective fate upon respective dials;
you docked your pirate ship inside my lines
and blocked me with uncompromising sails.
To square the round we drew our swords to fight,
inflicting wrath on anchored minds with spears;
decisions ground with sharp wit edged with spite,
in altercation boxed the other’s ears.
In case you tried to sail I slung my stones,
and what I strove to build you ran to spoil;
you flared your nostrils, stamped upon my bones,
I danced on pins to pitch my burning oil.
You curdled coffee with your sour grapes,
my rancid comments rattled down our time;
but now you’re gone I miss our fierce debates,
it seems as though your voice was also mine.