BreakDance

I walk towards a school-house

through sizzling evening rain;

I’m heading for a disco

ominous in my brain

but I know my son will be dancing

out and into my brain

 

but only spotlights boogie,

colour surging round

on empty wooden floorboards

spurred by beatbox sound

hammering walls and my brainbox

in pulsing waves of sound

 

and out from the dark he races,

bounces into the beat,

spins like a whirling dervish

twisting up the heat

Elvis on the dance floor;

a host, a hit, in heat.

 

What is it with this dancing?

What do I need to learn?

A welling in my heart-source;

a love, a pride, a burn?

Expression of the vital

teaching turn on turn.

Angel

Hey Look

An angel

Leaf shimmering

Old Masters in Florence

Forget colouring in

and anything to do with art – unless it’s felt music.

Museums? They’re good for shouts, shocks:

people look and Ssshh.

Old Masters? Stuff!

Forget it.

Smiles.

Not stuff.

Meaning

Armtellinthee

weeoutashadowovvadowt

t’secundshockwur

intdesurt

when a wise man, big cheese, shaman,

seer, spake;

 

‘Before we’re born, we choose our fate

and then we’re born into our fate. To live fate!

Andrew, before his birth,

chose to be a teacher.

He sacrificed a normal form

for parents

to learn about love,

learn warmth,

humanity.

He gave a great

gift.

He sacrificed his life

for your sake!’

 

And do I believe this man?

No!
Now it’s not belief.

Beyond an explanation,

I know through

knowledge,

experience

of a Truth.

Writer's Block

I tossed a glass of water

within the past few moments

and minutes earlier I popped

(one by one by one by one)

a bagload of sweets to my

yawning gob: hours ago, ribs

and, yesterday, a sighing wine

 

and I,

 

I promise

to return imbibitions

with a thousand flowery words

by the rising dawn

of tomorrow

morn.

Vital Statistics

Here’s a thing.

My son’s vital statistics are;

chest and waist 100 centimeters, hips the same.

He’s like a column,  tube or cylinder.

 

And there are more statistics vital ;

-       he dances 10 times more often than me

-       he smiles 3 times more often

-       he hugs 2 times more

-       he sings – ditto –

 

Dance and smile, hug and sing:

like when honey oozes onto your tongue,

claggy with succulence melting your bones;

everything’s vital, hang the statistics.

Now there’s a thing.

 

Not Love

Today so many food-words bargained for:

 

sausages or broccoli,

chocolate or cauliflower,

chips, peas,

brown or white,

marmalade or marmite,

apple or ice cream,

banana, egg, maltesers?

 

I got home, exhausted by negotiation,

looked again at your sticky mouth, lips,

another wipe and another bite to eat

and more to clean and toilet out.

All challenged,

every mouthful for debate

 

and then I saw it!

That it’s not about Love,

your lesson today.

Not Love. Love is a portal, gate

with more to get – beyond the word;

to bend my unbent leg,

doff cap,

drop knees.

 

Central to every comedy,

tragedy or history

(Macbeth and Basil Fawlty):

hard to admit and even

further out than love

and harder than love to say,

to learn about,

the word that came to me,

a funny word,

softly,

with surprise,

well wrapped:

Humility.