Poetry by Roy Moller

​One Hundred Ghost Tales

In my time I’ve been chilled by 100 ghost tales.
Tentacles whip around me.
In my time I’ve been shivered by 99 shipwrecks.
Underwater claws come at me.
In my time I’ve been torn by 90 spare bullets
from Romanov cells and Ceaușescu courtyards;
I’ve squinted, locating the Lorca within me
lit by 89 headlamps.
In my time I’ve been caught under outpatient cloudbank
blearied by a choir of 80 vocoders.
With tendrils of tree root hobbling my footsteps
I’ve battled against the unholy alliance
of 79 hangovers marching. 
Together, they beat me from 17 to 70, 
man and boy and back again. Whatever.
I dreamt in the gutter of 69 lovers
displayed in a gallery of 60 crucifixions
and 59 luminous nativities.
In my atheist anorak I’ve carried up to 50
diving bricks of science fiction.
In rags I’ve been panned by 49 diggers,
sifted for gold and found deceptive.
In my prime I’ve been cautioned by 40 officers
and loosened my lip at merely 39.
In my prime I’ve been kissed by 38 summers.
The other 16 it rained.




Mediums

In the first golden era of home computing
I nursed a headache, defragmenting
a hard drive that hated my meddling.

I will chew your files with relish,
a Biblical beggar
tossed a leg of lamb.

In the last great age of Fostex recorders,
I played the same sequence over and over
on tape that insisted on crinkling.
It knew what I heard in my head and fought me:

I will take my rogue chisel, Oddjob teeth,
your hammering neighbours 
and leave you nothing by morning.

In the last stubborn flush of youth
I cashed my dole check for an easel.
Confronted by a blank canvas
my paintbrush shed its bristles
and snapped its brittle stem in two.

You can’t paint, you can’t draw.
You hold too tight but can’t grasp
you’ll never find your medium.

In the last great coda of printed paper
I turned my attention to this.




Two Windows

Finger the button that snaps up the blinds,
find two views from the same landing.
Left view: absolute blue.
                               Right view: cumulonimbus.
Invite yourself to breathe like a Buddhist.
Favour neither window.




The Daylight Line

Sunlight smears dawn tread

on stacked-up chairs and tables.
Café closed to dancers.

Red brick factory;
chimney tapered, stiff, regal.
Entry restricted.

Murk brings odd clatters.
No hammers shake the sailboat 
jacked up on stilts.

Paint in turpentine,

wet clouds swirl round, deciding 
how to blight the park.

Creosote infuses

the Traffic Calmed Area.
Fences are mended.



​
Rituals

No books without coffee,
no songs without beer,
no anything minus a cigarette.
Yes, you had your rituals.

No set piece occasion,
no special event
minus making a coruscating row.
I had my rituals also.

​

Bio: Born in Edinburgh of Canadian heritage, Roy's work has appeared in the likes of And Other Poems, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Lighthouse Literary Journal and the anthology Neu! Reekie! UntitledTwo.  He now lives in Dunbar, East Lothian.  His website is www.roymoller.com

---