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Tag: Tom Pickard

Waiting for an Absence

something has been here before

and everything waits for it to come again

traces remain round sulky bends

velvet peat pissed rocks

built on echoes

shaped by deserting water

insect silent

a scut of earth

cut up and shut up

hills throw themselves at skies

that open and come down

it’s very simple

everything waits for it to come again

from Hole in the WallFind more by Tom Pickard at the library

Copyright © 2002 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

When I No Longer See You

when I no longer see you

may those who see you see you well

walking with a long view

by some swelling water or declining fell,

wearing, as you do now, a sleeveless blouse

your girlish shoulders, straight back,

once dark hair thinned and silvered

as the sky your bold eye scans

someday by a confluence of buried river

and submerged stream

not beached I hope nor lonely

remember days adrift in cloud

the scented meadows of our flesh

while walking city streets or wooded track

when bones compound or twist your back

let those who see you see you well

from Hole in the WallFind more by Tom Pickard at the library

Copyright © 2002 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Energy

The swallows on the TV aerial

face west and watch

the fellsides undulate

like dunes in the dusk.

They gather on the telephone wire.

Yesterday, fifty.

Today more than double that.

Quick clouds skim purple

off the fells.

These are the facts

I’m faxing down my line.

Slow flying jets under

a low lying sky.

They fly south

over armies assembled in the dust,

appear on radar screens

the shape of cities,

and disperse

like grains of sand in a storm.

from Hole in the WallFind more by Tom Pickard at the library

Copyright © 2002 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Front

there is something so familiar in what is said

I stop and listen,

a traveller’s monologue of dark moaning trees,

chopped waters,

deserted street corners,

randomly disturbed light,

raised curtains,

doors flung open,

sudden precipitous avenues,

far away dogs brought near

it is insistent

secures my inner ear

we pick up the old conversation

neither of us understands

from The Dark Months of MayFind more by Tom Pickard at the library

Copyright © 2004 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

Mess of Blues

an embattled horizon

and a silk storm of subtle rain at the window

I thought was you

packed up and portable

I’m ready to run

I heard a gun at dawn

a fuckwind shot and screeching

what carries forward is love

—what a mover!

sleek hips and hanging loose

can I come over?

I kiss your punches, embrace your kicks

gan on, beg me to die for you

although your love turned toxic

my breath stops when you hurry past

to lock up the chickens, clutching a fag

from The Dark Months of MayFind more by Tom Pickard at the library

Copyright © 2004 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

SELF ABSTRACTING POEM

a breeze of rowan lifts

pale curtains of cloud

where hawks stake a claim

to a drifter’s sky

the lick of jigging water

over rock

takes thought with it

and every it it is

it

and us outside it

I outside us

and us it

inside of I

and out

or hung

tail slick as a pack of cards

scuffing gushes

over lush mist

that skulk cloughs

while swift streams

skim speech

from streets of the sea

from The Dark Months of MayFind more by Tom Pickard at the library

Copyright © 2004 Tom Pickard
Used with the permission of Flood Editions.

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Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.

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