my day-to-day is mainly cladding like the tie-dyed cloud scarfing last night’s moon call it misguided (my detailed examination of tree necks) but have you seen the loving press of grey rings soft and round as ghost kisses? I wish I could believe in spirits or at least in more than clock hands, their indelicate flinging of mud-balls (thunder cloaked as mischance) each morning my porcelain landscape a splintered bandana of yesterday’s colours time is a war zone these days and the answers, like my render, are cracking
Written for Miz Quickly QnV6 (use a mis- word or two)
Out of the Cave 
I loved that first stanza: it’s amazing — almost stand alone —and that potent metaphor at the end —
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks John. Much appreciated.
LikeLike
I so completely empathise with ‘hands of clocks’ throwing stuff. We’re all under the press of someone’s hands. Nice one, W.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Merci Misky! 🌼
LikeLiked by 1 person
A brilliant poem, but Dauphy wants to know how you got that pig inside the tree.
LikeLiked by 1 person
LOL! Good question, Dauphy. I asked the tree that same question. But it just said “shshshsh” so I assume it’s a secret.
LikeLiked by 1 person
😂 Not prepared to squeal then!
LikeLiked by 1 person
LOL
LikeLiked by 1 person
I love that last stanza. Difficult, but apt.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thanks, Bob. This poem has had so many iterations. Even since pressing “publish” on WP I keep going back and amending bits. I want to say something but I”m struggling with it a bit.
LikeLike
I know the feeling. I’m constantly editing and changing what I write. Good luck finding just the right words, sometimes it takes time.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Too much warring can take anyones and anything ‘cladding’ away.
And often time seems not to help when we have ‘naked’ emotions.
LikeLiked by 1 person
So true.
LikeLiked by 1 person