Visions of Orion Poetry

Last Call at Shangri-la

Last Call at Shangri-la
(Tanka)

Solar fireball shrinks
into a fluorescent dusk;
he knows how to mix
a Caribbean cocktail
in layers of ochre crush.

©️Orion Foote

Call it the hypnotic pull
of icicles holding court
on a frigid window pane.
It’s like watching time dissolve
inside a Rothko expanse;
a wordless haiku
that requires no translation
in any known language.

A speechless actor
doesn’t need subtitles
when zoning out with eye clouds;
It’s a final print in empathy.
A quiet affirmation
of all that is understood
through the hushed crescendo
of time’s pungent haze.

Over scorched expresso
and sun dried Cuban leaves,
stalwart & understudy mime
off-screen improvs ad libitum;
call it widescreen telepathy.

©️Orion Foote

On Awakening

On Awakening
(Tanka)

Kiki scans pages
of morning’s feline gazette.
She nose tracks letters
in earth scented light columns;
marks time shoveling fur dew.

©️ Orion Foote

Postcards from Kobayashi

Postcards from Kobayashi
(Haiku Chain)

Your rabid fire song
fades – a dull yellow echo
of bilious hues.

Leering clouds obscure
our prime source – I catch their drift;
hours shrink like burnt leaves.

I sweep charred ashes
of warm smiles into crisp wind;
time sings rubato.

Portrait with skyline
sleeps darkly in foxed pages;
a digital ghost.

Hushed low strung murmurs
recede into winter’s call;
the moon swallows tears.

Horizons gather
beyond day’s filtered lighthouse;
night’s cloak has her way.

In clockwork stasis,
we bathe in quiet longing;
pine for scorched kisses.

©️Orion Foote

Autumn Trinity

Autumn Trinity
(Three Haiku)

Your rabid fire song
fades in yellow echoes
of withered sad hues.

I sweep charred embers
of warm smiles to crisp four winds;
knowing time runs true.

In subdued transit,
we bathe in quiet longing;
pine for scorched kisses.

©️ Orion Foote

Rewriting his Plaque

On Rewriting his Plaque

Three weeks shy
of a neat three score,
I come to your river pew
in midday’s yellow blaze.

I wait for the trill
of the rivers song;
for arms of valley hills
to wrap around me,
like pale limp flesh, that once
draped across my ribs
in morning’s wondrous light
that yawned through waking curtains

To eavesdrop on grating cicadas
in shameless full swing.
To strip away the blight of varnish
that obscures this self portrait;
In the end, I will return to another
place – womb of eternity.

The days that remain were never yours;
are never promised ours to hold.

©️Orion Foote

Editing Natural Selection

I secretly enjoy the rigmarole:
it’s like self medicating on words
after arcane dental work,
or playing devil’s advocate
for a mixed marriage between
a CNN reporter & a Russian diplomat.

I’m bent over foul papers
at three in the afternoon – shuffling
arbitrary shorthand symbols,
until it’s time to tango; time to start
dropping liquorice in the snow.

At day’s end, a clean slate
would suit me fine – throw in
the towel and go for silent gestures.
Let the emperor’s new clothes
assault the catwalk, as some
kind of not so subtle innuendo.
Maybe the editor would play along;
perhaps he would even get it.

©️Orion Foote

Dying in Third Person

He doubles as despatch rider.
blazing in with grim omens
squirming inside satchel’s womb.
2B pencil droppings – those faded
by the furore of fiery light,
mix with those of a darker ilk;
not for the eyes of another.

When the chosen appear above
echoes of fire & morning bells,
he reaches for sidearm & scissors;
spares no expense of thought
for the fallen, who always return
at the dawn’s last post.

Isn’t it bloody, my boy
When streetlights glow somber
beneath a broad light of day.
When sleep cycles twitch
like leaves before slow paralysis.
Isn’t it bloody, my boy
when words huddle in trenches
that heave under a pasting at dawn.

On changing gear, he curses at HQ.
Where Generals sip tea – bloated
on Belgian slice; their diverging
word threads propose
all in good time – as time itself explodes.

©️Orion Foote

Well Meaning

His words evaporate like fog
in mid morning on leaving his mouth.
I’d love to drop a few
micro hints over a lager or two
with him – quickly avert my gaze,
so as not to assume pontiff.
It would be over in a brief episode;
as quick & as painless
as a flick of the scalpel.

I’d pass him a slim volume
under the table, like in some
BBC espionage & intrigue drama.
Alec Guinness would chime in
with a few pointers to boot;
revive his signature role,
while smirking down the barrel
with a smug glint behind thick rims.

We would both hone in for the kill.
Share our little joke with secret
hand signals – at some point
we’d read him the riot act;
rearrange things as they are
to make them seem more real.
But I have to wonder, if he
would even notice the difference.

©Orion Foote

On Any Other Day

Perhaps it was no different
than any other form of misfortune.
Like waking up with a screamer
of a cold, or Bells Palsy on the morning
of a GQ cover shoot – bad luck,
but there it is in plain scrawl.
Died by the visitation of God

It was the accepted lingo;
a way of embodying the lyric,
a way of getting it off the books
before cracking on with parish
semantics and other dark business.

God likes to swing by unannounced;
straighten things out with a big
stick in these grave times.
He would have come a cropper
anyway – irrespective of the hour.