Suspended Indefinitely

A man in a cafe

A voyeur in the corner

Life at the tip of his pen

Time

Suspended indefinitely

The immortality of words

 

Thatcher Doran

A Frame

I see through the glass

A field of grass

The many blades it takes

To paint it green

A frame to hold a thought

Then, comes the rain

Solidifies the scene

Then, mutates slowly

Shape-shifts into dream

To the echo of a cello

The sound of a violin

Those melancholic wisps

Listening to Dvorak’s chant

“Song to the moon”

A haunting melody

A sublime simplicity

 

Thatcher Doran

 

Grey

What we see is

Perspective

Coloured or shady

Grey is transition

Before or after pain

Grey is the road

To or coming back…

Temporary in a temporal

World

Always…longing

To see the sun

Then, it’s gone

 

Thatcher Doran

 

Raisins Left in the Sun

A book and paper..blank

Awaits

For words to ink the page

A cappuccino sits

And while I wait

A summer wasp hovers

In silent pain

Making suicide missions

Across my face

It’s that time of year

On the off-white window sash

A comrade dies..stiff

Its wings silent…hum less

And two more friends…now

Succumb to their fate

Desert the sky

Dragging the corpus of their lives

Until they stop…stiff

To resemble

Raisins left in the sun

 

Thatcher Doran

Lost at Traffic Lights

Each morning through the same

Glass

I see the city street

The same routine…almost

Except for collateral minutes

Lost at traffic lights

And the morning changes…

People take a second

Breath

But still stare ahead

The beat, the pace…

Only momentarily…hesitates

Then the red changes to green

What seems lost is regained!

Or is it?

 

Thatcher Doran

Just Short of a Stare

There in the quietness

A stranger strays into my sight

In that tunnel of curiosity

I look, just short of a stare

Beyond the straight line

Of cafe chairs

Through the hypnotic mist

Of desire…I look again

Something about the face

The shape left by a smile

The dark brown of her eyes

Ten minutes of desire

Just short of lust…

Beyond the straight line of a stare

Thatcher Doran

Watershed

Dark and brooding

Clouds are gathering

Grey and menacing

Sinister

In their character

They wait…

Here’s hoping the train

Will out run their post

An airborne watershed

Primed to burst…

 

Thatcher Doran

Maybe Soon…!

I would like to stay awhile

And look outside

Through the cafe glass

See the world turn…so slow

It’s hard to believe it spins

But its people who move

And turn

Who change yet stay the same

Spin reality into variants

Of itself

Invent or reinvent a style

A forgotten fashion

So much energy

So many clever heads

Bobbing down the street

So much intelligence occupying

A space

Is enough to spin the universe!

Maybe soon…!

 

Thatcher Doran

 

Desire

Desire maybe a want

To consume

Without the ability

To swallow

 

Thatcher Doran

 

A Reminder

Life is about seeking out

The possible

Reality is a reminder

You haven’t found it…yet

 

Thatcher Doran