Friday, 17 July 2009


I wake at five o’ clock

every morning this week

with no one else in the house

and now remember Sunday dinner,

slow eating like Arthur’s knights:


Andrew, Merlin, holding court.


He knows the names of days,

months, even seasons, but

has no time for clocks

when he sees a throng

of mates around a table


and nudges them into song.


He knows more than kings

that fortune has no era

finer than this moment;

that now it’s time to sit,

smile and clap in time:


urging that humans unite.

Thursday, 16 July 2009


I lurk on the left at a bar vibrating

(the beat-box is loud alright):

my drink is drained, throat like a campfire

with a barmaid busy on the right


but, in between, an invisible force-field

is clamped in a column to the bar

unseen, unstable because, as she approaches,

the waitress fades away.


I burn and blether inside a bubble

when she lurches back to the light:

I swear she desires to slop me a glassful

but the obstacle won’t let her loose.


The band is booming, the funk is fierce,

I sizzle in personal space

unbeknown because of a barrier

of tension that pushes her back.


I shake and shout and waggle my wallet

but the barmaid won’t force through the fence

when up bowls a boy with a smile like a sunset

and smashes resistance, busts up the ban


on the Smashed.

Wednesday, 15 July 2009


We played today a game of ‘Joseph’

with every tribe of Israel named,

the colours in a dream recounted

easily – all twenty nine.


What a knack to ride on waves of music;

peach and violet and ruby and ochre and blue.

Delight wells catching

a given rhythm.


Imagine there has always been an inner

pulse, force, an energy of sound:

imagine I could truly listen,

donate a gift of total attention.


The music stops and a game pops away.

I think about TV and dinner.

Different musical next:


Tuesday, 14 July 2009

Prospero Kisses

We are such stuff as dreams are made on…

Snaffle another drink, dearie,

a little drop more, a splash,

to get me through this dull, dull play

empty me into the trash,

gobble the bottle and, dearie mine,

shuffle along in line;

Prospero’s here in a couple of mo’s:

Shakespeare gets me so!

…and on us - in us - of us - dreams are made.

Sunday, 12 July 2009

Super Hero with Down's Syndrome

‘Look Mom, at a Super Hero sitting on a chair

inside our little living room in Super Hero gear’

The Hero’s eyes are hooded orbs of strange tomfoolery,

un-prepossessed and out to tackle any evil deed.


Fancy a party, a twirling, twist and shout?

Disco bopping, let’s go shopping, flop and smile and

chat with strangers, funny folk,

who don’t need Super Heroes - but do


enjoy fun; a grin, a hug, a sparkled eye-to-eye

and laugh out-loud at crazy pranks that Super Heroes play.

Pre-eminent in mischief,

shenanigans and winning smiles.