Take time to eat,
Andrew says, chew slow:
close your eyes
focus taste and tang and tingle fat
in glorious food-time:
even when bandits are about,
in a meditation group,
her long hair plaited like rope,
with a cabin boy smile and
40 year old pirate’s eyes
said ’The one trouble with
meditation is I fall
She produced a stale air-bed,
puffed it loudly, added a
sheet, a pillow, polka dot
duvet, plumped her cloudy craft,
yawned, de-robed, boarded up and
I don’t know about you but
I’ve avoided writing poems
turning working hands, at David Browns’,
on pinion, spur and helical gear
although, cogitating now by a winding river,
distant cars are meshing male and female parts;
gearbox dreams of speed and torque.
He worked on every Aston Martin
James Bond drove
so he saved the world
and he loved, he loved,
a beer and chat.
I don’t know about you.
A friend is scanning HEAT magazine
on a beach where a passionate sun belts him
so he takes off his hat and flourishes sweat.
Boiled, we take a steaming walk and clock
an older woman sporting HOT
on a T-shirt over her large chest - cup D;
so we lick ice cream and out from a beach hut
struts an aging man, neoprene black;
a sea-lion performer, a drama king,
ready to otter the waves on a surfboard,
buttocks trembling in rubber technology.
The sea is cold - and waves inevitably hit him,
and hit him again.
Sleep, Andrew, sleep:
when climbers inch walls,
we scramble, reach, and act as if
there is no way to fall.
But your smile and strangeness
makes timid people creep
and slide away from heaven
back to a cave of sleep.
You gaze out from windows
wave again, again,
seeking for an answer;
not why or where – but when?!
Crack the boring bubble,
take a dancing bow;
dancing in this moment,
in this now, for now.
Asleep, but never forget
we’re dancing at a Ball:
awake, asleep, you do know
the glory of it all.
a tractor turns and its mechanical racket,
up itself, makes no sense
while my three sons, asleep in a nearby tent,
learning, feeling, singing, whispering, dancing.
Most clatter is hollow; spiraling labyrinthine ears
and once I sat in an empty cave and heard – Nothing.
Instinctively, I made up noises to cheer
my brain – sounds of people –
like these boys breathing and dreaming in a tent’s stocking;
yearning for the centre of a small warm circle.