Monday, 10 March 2014
nine month old in nappies
played at peek-a-boo
reached out stubby fingers
wanted stranger touch.
Words were far beyond him,
contact made by palms
slapping all the tourists
getting fingers on.
We had sat in silence
‘til this terrorist
came upon our handsets
broke into our souls.
Monday, 17 February 2014
Near to Jung’s Big Red Book,
a bunch of roses – multitudinous
splashing – not logical
but simply pressing the effort
of crazy existence with no collateral.
Magic is rare and difficult, colourful,
but impelled by gusto and stupidity;
voracity of jester, drunkard and clown.
We need to make room for fools because,
in the end, there is nothing to understand
as wind rattles a casement,
spilling a scent of arcing flowers
and reasonable and unreasonable stand
shoulder to shoulder, bow in acceptance.
Sunday, 2 February 2014
A Boy pens a sun like a smiley tangerine,
a Girl bounces steadily on her trampoline.
Mother makes tea and beams down on her family.
Father gives presents to them all on Christmas day.
A boy stays out late because there is a party.
A girl texts her mother and calls her new boyfriend.
Dad pens agendas and heads off for the Boardroom.
A boy fights mummy and father in the pantry.
Girl loves the heat of a smelly double poster
and sun shines light into cracks among the shadows.
A Boy gets his first job loading in a warehouse,
a Girl tries out loving with a few men and boys.
A Woman is married, settles into offspring,
a Man weds a girl with a single golden ring.
A new Boy is drawing a sunny tangerine,
a new Girl bounces on her Christmas trampoline.
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
White cells are warriors parading through the bloodstream.
Red cells are powering the big pump up to speed.
Red wine and forehead, furious as bumblebees.
White wine (by sweetness) settles into calm.
Red cells propel,
white cells ignite;
delegates in lubricant, security and thrill
dancing a quickstep around and around.
But why circulation of paleness, intensity,
angry, protecting, hurting and calm
but for tall stories of wellsprings and bonfires
granting my chambers their work another day,
sharing the real stuff in redness and whiteness.
Red wine and white wine are luscious today.
Saturday, 18 January 2014
When Shakespeare chose to pick up a pen
he set a flow of ink in motion
with every effort staggering
a nib - back, right, away - and scratching
catching black and in blue ink
his thoughts and feelings lurching out
(single words on a page revealed)
and thoughts and feelings lurching back
to head and heart from whiter spaces
between the letters, words and lines
(that’s the Shakespeare he concealed).
Thursday, 9 January 2014
I spoke to my doc and an old journo friend:
‘Under the sun, nothing is new’ said one.
‘The only constant is change,’ said the next.
‘Only uncertainty’s certain,’ said one
and lastly, ‘There’s nothing on earth you can do.’
But in between these two, our sun arose
and flared out a wave to our feet on the earth,
heads in the air, hands in a chirruping stream.
Sunday, 22 December 2013
Hardy was a misery, Blake the furthest mystery,
Auden was a brainbox, Thomas alcoholic,
Eliot and Kipling – sent their letters rippling,
Emerson a clever one, Chaucer ever saucy,
Dickinson amazing, Whitman went out traipsing,
cummings hated capitals, Owen had a war on,
Larkin was hardworking, Hughes became a laureate,
Tennyson another one, and who was HD?
But Wallace Edgar’s Wallace
tosses Shakespeare sonnets
out into a flat cap
when t’lion et up Albert.
Plenty to laugh at int’ zoo
‘ind ‘im in his Sunday clothes too.’