Jonathan Beale’s work has appeared regularly in Decanto, Penwood Review, The Screech Owl, Danse Macabre, Danse Macabre du Jour, Poetic Diversity, and also; Voices of Israel in English, MiracleEzine, Voices of Hellenism Literary Journal, The Journal, Ink Sweat & Tears, Down in the Dirt, & (Drowning: Down in the Dirt July 13) The English Chicago Review, Mad Swirl, Poetry Cornwall, Ariadne’s Thread, Bijou Poetry Review, Calvary Cross, Deadsnakes Review, The Bichin Kitsch, The Dawntreader, and I am not a Silent Poet. He was commended in Decanto’s and Café writers Poetry Competitions 2012. And is working on a collection for Hammer and Anvil. He studied philosophy at Birkbeck College London and lives in Surrey England.
Clumsy fingered typed ideal – still the blossom hangs
The seamless threads called joy, pain, love, and loss.
Reflected in the mirror of tomorrows yesterday
The arching wave we draw in the mind’s eye.
The short straight stabbing uncontrolled lines overlapping
crossing - as sharp as lime and the brine on the tongue.
Shows the eddying, .that carries too: will upload and leave
Days onward. The black news arrives.
Thrown from pillar to bar from black cold space to infinity.
This day has never enough space: knowing tomorrow’s deserts endlessness’
Endlessness’ must pass, strangely; as it does there are other horizons’.
Mood and colour mingle in a strangely knowing blindness.
Point, next point, next point… next, it flows like a song on water
They talk of hysteria and other senses and timescales;
Still here the room - once a sanctuary – now a prison
So the action of the hand the smoking, the drink, the tea, the coffee….
Currents roll and still my short sharp lines dart this way and that – over space
Still the lives that roll on past: pass by like cars on the motorway
Never to be seen again. some new horizon or some’ same old – same old’
The eyes and mouth having million million words now can say just none.