Get Through
I imagine myself
inside an Edward Hopper painting,
sitting in a diner
alone and motionless,
the black coffee getting cold,
waiting for something
within me to change
when suddenly the atmosphere
eases and I hear
a trumpet sound
played by a lean,
cool Chet Baker
embracing my silent mood,
reaching out across
the evening shadows,
touching my sleeve,
taking me along
with those strong adjectives of music
which climb and soar
above the oppressive
streets and traffic,
telling me calmly of a way
to get through.
inside an Edward Hopper painting,
sitting in a diner
alone and motionless,
the black coffee getting cold,
waiting for something
within me to change
when suddenly the atmosphere
eases and I hear
a trumpet sound
played by a lean,
cool Chet Baker
embracing my silent mood,
reaching out across
the evening shadows,
touching my sleeve,
taking me along
with those strong adjectives of music
which climb and soar
above the oppressive
streets and traffic,
telling me calmly of a way
to get through.
Kite
Her body is five months pregnant,
she stands on a hill
laughing to herself.
Controlling the fresh
strings of the kite
she kindles a red
swirl of ribbons.
The movement of blind
air carries towards a life
soon to enter
this fast world,
touching it like purity,
the gravity and pull of imagination,
an innocent about to argue
with dangerous time,
the shining heartbeat of flesh and blood.
Byron Beynon lives in West Wales. His work has appeared in several publications including Poppy Road Review, The London Magazine, Galway Review, Poetry Wales and Black Mountain Review. Collections include The Echoing Coastline (Agenda Editions), The Sundial (Flutter Press) and Where Shadows Stir (The Seventh Quarry Press).
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