Boy

I am alive; talk to me,

voices can sing to me, harmonise bass with me, make up the words to a ballad or yarn with me, loudly embark with me.

 

I am alive, laugh with me,

fall down and wrestle me, sport, spin and tumble your oneness in tune with me. Love me as I love me.

 

I am alive, approach me,

feel for the guffaw; believe that the bellies of folly live on in me, rhyming me, glance at me sideways and hope to encroach on me.

 

I am alive, notice me,

play up in mischief and open the windows for breezes to blow at me. Let me uphold you and so you can bolster me.

I am alive; distract me

in every direction, the clowning comes through to me. Shatter the eggs with me, clean up the mess with me, wear a chef’s hat for me.

 

I am alive; melt with me,

growl out a giggle and tickle me. Sparkle and yes with me. Make a fine mess with me. Yes with me. Yes with me.

Ode to Autism

‘Just a single.’ I raise a finger

and a waitress nods and leads me to a single

chair at a single table, deep inside

a City eater.

It’s several days

since I saw my son.

He’s a ‘single’;

spending big phases

alone.

The thought’s like a shudder

carried over water

to another shore

 

but in dodgems, where bumpers

bang and shock,

he shakes

with glee: delighting

in a burn and crash

contained in space

with loved-ones close

and surly fairground helpers

bound by electricity.

 

One time in Ireland,

the owner let us ride again and again

for free. He’ll meet Saint Peter.

 

But now I whisper to myself

below a lunchtime hubbub

in a City of London restaurant

that here are tons of people, tough

as gulls, alone, forever squalling

lonely

on and on above the sea,

buffeted by what happens next

and whatever’s meant to be.

Bear Market

I ask my son directly,

‘which bear best;

baby, mummy, daddy?’

He answers straight out

‘Daddy bear is best.

                        No worries,

he gets more porridge!’

 

Together

With unequivocal geometry, the sun

rises golden, tempts today on earth’s rim

and, by chance, we also see a silver moon

withstand an early wash of light.

 

Poets, of course, know it could be two faces

or an asymmetrical dumb-bell, levers

on a pivotal now

or Cyclops’ eyeing out from rounded caves.

 

We walk along after February snow,

kick drifts forwards and backwards, roll flakes into

unique snowballs

and chuck them at each other with intent

 

when, in mid air, two snowballs stop, hover;

pupils dilate and finally – finally - we know nothing.

Ice Fire

In a corner of our garden

we built up a massive snowman,

stood back and marveled at our work:

the darkling eyes and ivory cheeks

and ears made out of orange skin,

 

a moon shaped mouth from crinoline,           

an apple that we chopped in half

became a nose onto his face

(we chomped the other piece with zest),

stood back and clocked the snowman’s gaze.

We looked at him, he looked at us

or else that seemed the way it was

 

but then a wind harassed and dark

engulfed the scene, enforced a wrap.

Inside, hot chocolate warmed our hands

but rain started pattering hard;

telling tall tales from arctic times

on windows, walls; battering rams

attacked a house, attacked our home.

 

Next day, we ventured to sense him;

of how he’d changed, withstood a life.

We hoped for fire, a wink, a spark

but slowly he had, through the dark,

stripped of himself; become his block of ice.

 

The City

Starbucks; hiss and steaming muzzles

where the thinnest person crunches

a door-shut again and again

because it’s winter, draughty, freezing.

 

In concrete, Canary Wharfe shudders

and a fat  lady hangs an ermine coat,

spills her coffee – cappuccino.

No one mentions the gigantic puddle

 

until a tiny Chinese barmaid,

smiling, mops it mostly up with paper towels.

Unconscious, we avoid the messy circle,

un-angry

 

if you call that, in your opinion,

a proper word.

 

An age

My son has a marvelous habit of telling

 

strangers that this very day is his birthday

and they, confused, can’t fathom the truth

 

but trust his nodding smile, congratulate

the rascal on reaching a mighty fine age

although sometimes they do seem surprised by the notion

 

that a boy so strange and acting childlike

could be ‘eighteen!’ but if you reckon

that every day is a birthday, he’s actually

at an age over six thousand and five hundred;

 

older than anyone else on the planet

(that is, according to conventional wisdom).

So he had a chat with Socrates,

shared a drink with an under-aged Jesus,

bounced in a chariot with Boedacia

 

and learnt his marvelous habits from Merlin;

like telling stories, beading the eye,

smiling, messing. challenging, pushing,

being himself, parading the fool

and testing whether magic is happening:

my son has a marvelous habit of telling.