thesound-of-onehandclapping.blogspot.com

The Sound of One Hand Clapping

Monday, 31 May 2010. Gone, westward with the wind. Gone, alone over great mountains. A marble child, chiselled and neat. Cheery as a chirping parakeet. Adriatic, that smooth blue ocean. Adriatic, those youngsters torn. When I wake up. A voice calls through the dim. 8220;He’s dead”. The sky will not recall him. Gone, alone under cruel mountains. Gone, westward with the wind. Monday, 3 May 2010. Tears from the war. Midnight struck hours ago. White moonlight bathed the clocks. The sad sky drips indigo.

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The Sound of One Hand Clapping | thesound-of-onehandclapping.blogspot.com Reviews

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Monday, 31 May 2010. Gone, westward with the wind. Gone, alone over great mountains. A marble child, chiselled and neat. Cheery as a chirping parakeet. Adriatic, that smooth blue ocean. Adriatic, those youngsters torn. When I wake up. A voice calls through the dim. 8220;He’s dead”. The sky will not recall him. Gone, alone under cruel mountains. Gone, westward with the wind. Monday, 3 May 2010. Tears from the war. Midnight struck hours ago. White moonlight bathed the clocks. The sad sky drips indigo.

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1 skip to main

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3 the soldier boy

4 limb from limb

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6 cosmo solitaire

7 no comments

8 augusta

9 of may

10 alicante

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The Sound of One Hand Clapping | thesound-of-onehandclapping.blogspot.com Reviews

https://thesound-of-onehandclapping.blogspot.com

Monday, 31 May 2010. Gone, westward with the wind. Gone, alone over great mountains. A marble child, chiselled and neat. Cheery as a chirping parakeet. Adriatic, that smooth blue ocean. Adriatic, those youngsters torn. When I wake up. A voice calls through the dim. 8220;He’s dead”. The sky will not recall him. Gone, alone under cruel mountains. Gone, westward with the wind. Monday, 3 May 2010. Tears from the war. Midnight struck hours ago. White moonlight bathed the clocks. The sad sky drips indigo.

INTERNAL PAGES

thesound-of-onehandclapping.blogspot.com

1

The Sound of One Hand Clapping: Capucine

http://thesound-of-onehandclapping.blogspot.com/2009/08/capucine.html

Saturday, 8 August 2009. White feet press on wet moss. I carried her across the rocks. Past a burning red lake. If love was to live, love was a mistake. Green shoot, yellow sky. Raven hair, starry eyed. Though God isn’t dead, he’s miles behind. The devil mixing murder in my mind. Who howls and shrieks. And dances when she screams. As she drops like a leaf. From my arms, from a bridge. Fragile feather, flailing cry. No Jesus, to tell me why. In the wild of night, when she whispered my name.

2

The Sound of One Hand Clapping: The Dancers

http://thesound-of-onehandclapping.blogspot.com/2010/03/dancers.html

Friday, 19 March 2010. I only dream of her. In the cold of. Pirouette, pas de deux. We spin in spirals on the stage. Gazing up at a ceiling of stars. And down to the stubs of cigars. Her eyes drift with the passing seasons. Turning green without rhyme or reason. Sparkling in the dark, the dark. And if I offered her my heart. We play a part, we cannot choose. Just lovers in our dancing shoes. For the audience to cheer. At that time of year. When the dancers were last here. The Sound of One Hand Clapping.

3

The Sound of One Hand Clapping: April 2010

http://thesound-of-onehandclapping.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html

Sunday, 25 April 2010. June Bomb (the blue girl's song). I sing softly under a yellow moon. And dream you’ll be home soon. The summer stars are six queens and a king. Sparkling like my engagement ring. In the day they disappear. But you, my sweet, are never here. I am a blue girl, sadly strumming a harp. I catch confetti at weddings, never flowers. At the funerals of our friends I weep. But I’m happy it’s not you, asleep. Gone, swinging your belt around the sun. Like Orion, firing petals from a gun.

4

The Sound of One Hand Clapping: September 2009

http://thesound-of-onehandclapping.blogspot.com/2009_09_01_archive.html

Sunday, 20 September 2009. He arrives with a stick. Blue eyes faded, boots a clickerty click. Teeth like a row of bombed houses. A smile to wake the dead. You rise, to welcome your old friend. After every war, you do it again. Questioning the medals, pinned to his chest. The medals scream back success. Chuffing away the excess. He raises a glass, another one down. Eighty thousand to Belzec. Before he forgets, old names left. On an export list, or buried in a ditch. Now in the courtroom, you see him twitch.

5

The Sound of One Hand Clapping: August 2009

http://thesound-of-onehandclapping.blogspot.com/2009_08_01_archive.html

Saturday, 8 August 2009. White feet press on wet moss. I carried her across the rocks. Past a burning red lake. If love was to live, love was a mistake. Green shoot, yellow sky. Raven hair, starry eyed. Though God isn’t dead, he’s miles behind. The devil mixing murder in my mind. Who howls and shrieks. And dances when she screams. As she drops like a leaf. From my arms, from a bridge. Fragile feather, flailing cry. No Jesus, to tell me why. In the wild of night, when she whispered my name. Until I got us...

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The Sound of One Hand Clapping

Monday, 31 May 2010. Gone, westward with the wind. Gone, alone over great mountains. A marble child, chiselled and neat. Cheery as a chirping parakeet. Adriatic, that smooth blue ocean. Adriatic, those youngsters torn. When I wake up. A voice calls through the dim. 8220;He’s dead”. The sky will not recall him. Gone, alone under cruel mountains. Gone, westward with the wind. Monday, 3 May 2010. Tears from the war. Midnight struck hours ago. White moonlight bathed the clocks. The sad sky drips indigo.

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