in our happy hour 

                                                      

  in our happy hour

  blooming among wild tulips

   sappily sprung in spring – 

                       *

   fresh April showers fall,

  sweeten earthy sluggish veins –

    riffs of birdsong wake

                        *

       liminal lovers

    on the season’s bare threshold,

     shivering off the cold –

                          *

    shed our chrysalis clothes,

      winter’s pale accessories,

        emerging nude, fresh –

                            *

    limitless like love

    shaken from hibernation

        in our happy hour

                                                                    __________________
                                                                                                            freddie omm , april 2017

sexy, slightly scary (her sweet self)


She’s sweet like a friend

Yet sexy, slightly scary

Like no one other

                 *

You like her. She smiles

The smile of one who knows that

That liking you feel

                  *

Likes her for her self

Like she wishes she could too

But she doesn’t like

                  *

Like herself… She says

She can’t explain how she likes 

What she likes in words

                  *

She has this dream

In which she merges in her

Lies of love with others like

                  *

She’s living some truth

Neither selfish nor selfless

– Like her to be both –

                  *

Sweet, wholesome, love-scarred

And sexy, exposed – scared that

She’s just like herself

                  *

But is not herself –

Like no one else is oneself:

We’re like each other.

othertime

othertime

i dreamed a dream of life, and lived it in my sleep
and when i woke i saw through a ghost’s eyes:

a scrawling world of vacant cemeteries,
queasy seas of memory, reflections deep,
and muffled beyond purple coral banks, skies
unfathomable as eternity…

… i thought it was the vanished i could see –
void significant nothings, truth-packed lies,
unrisen suns, eclipsed in tenseless space.

for i was a poet of when
and now and then
saw written in your face
love stuff that words forgot to write –

while palpitating in our hearts tonight
are words in blood which leave no other trace
but of another self, another place
whose vanishings recur, but always out of sight.

                            *

we live a poem of when, but otherwhere
and othertime – like ivy spread on vines –
creep through our veins: chance, undeciphered signs,
runes and symptoms of things which are not there.

like shadows in a maze of moonshine
we black out, eyeless and pale in the night –
but when cold dawn dissolves us, hold on tight
together, two syllables that overspilled the line.

being alive at all
even hearing quite another call
is being blessed
in incomprehension, indifference;
and inner reflections on our innocence
are inattentive to our interest –

all to the good – beyond reason and rhyme
we live a poem of when, that otherwhere and othertime.

                                                                            freddie
                                                                            easter 2011

happy snaps – easter haiku

i snap happiness
and in an easter egg-hunt
i happen on it.

       *

i happen on it
like an egg under a bush
in springtime hatches.

       *

snip-snap-happy now
a shutter on opening
floats in reflections.

       *

float on in a flood
sun seasoned petals swirling
butterfly wings past.

       *

i happen on you
no matter the season when
happiness i swap.

                                       freddie
                                      easter 2011

skim, scan and scroll

nicholas carr, in the shallows, says the internet saps creativity.

by altering neuroplastic highways in our brains, it erodes our memories: thanks to google, we don’t have to remember anything anymore.

it is a sinister form of cortical re-mapping.

for, if creation is combining cognitive fluidity with intuitions and memory, a dependence on surfing is bad for it.

carr’s book is well reviewed by jim holt in the london review of books.

verbosphere

(this is the first poem i wrote on my bebook)

verbosphere

can’t feel – no sound, no birds
here in the verbosphere
there are no stars
(except as four-letter words)
nothing rough nor nothing blue
no knives to hack you scars
no coldnesses of words untrue
uncut the story clear
(we are all a missing clue).
but what could be more dear
when we is me and me is you
than this silent verbosphere?