Andrew Spice

When he dances

in a turn, a jump,

a killer smile,

he has a plan

more cunning than

a Broadway star,

more ancient than

a Stratford Bard.

Whatever they’re thinking

he’ll make them feel

more human, more real,

from the depth of a wellspring

 ‘Remember. Remember; yeah, yeah!

They will remember me!’

Superman

goes back to the wife and kids,
drives through amber on the way;
ready for his running club,
then a final drop of lids;
snoring like a dozy bear,
snorting like a horse in hay.

One day he’ll come back home and blub,
- wail - as every baby can:

missing sunrise, waving corn,
huddles, eyeballs, nothing more.

Pantomime

Granddads and grandkids,
bald heads and roundheads,
teenage cavaliers
snorting at the prospect.

Grandmas with twinsets,
princesses with crowns on,
teenage femme fatales
sneering at the scene.

Open featured actors,
passion of the children
clean our dirty heartstrings

and fledgling troubadours
cheer with all the action,
clap until they’re sore.

This train will stop at

seat or sofa, stop in bed,
stop for coffee, beer and bread,
stop at nothing, stop my head,
stop that nonsense, stop the blood,
stop the bottle, stop the spread,
stop the car, stop sign ahead,
stop all the clocks – my stopwatch said –
stoptap, stop light, stop off. Stop.
Stopcock’s stopped. Step off. I’m dead.

Hunting

On a train to London
he goes a-hunting
between coffee cups,
iphones, apps.
Outside, backwards, fly
- green fields – blue sky.

He’ll need a large pool of luck,
all his courage,
to look out - into
faces;
longing for eyes in the glass of a window,
hoping to catch a truth.

Vincent

Vincent, are you pretty matey?

Vincent are you beautiful?

Passionate as any pirate,

mad and wonderful?

How can throats not sadden

to think of how you showed

standing at an easel, dancing,

heart as pure as newly melting snow.

In the East,

one green blade of grass

far beyond the horizon

catches morning light.

Andrew

Over multiple years

of separated poles – alone –

the sun has melted Arctic ice,

Antarctic crackled stone.

But, tonight, when you stood there

using only quiet breath

to sing ‘I wanna be like you oo oo!’

a white bird flew out from the warmth

of dancing turns,

Elvis hips,

burning eyes,

waving hands;

circled on the verge

of waking sleep

and drilled a crevice in my heart

that only children reach.

Robert Frost wins at Scrabble

 I walked along a farmyard wall and saw

a face that I had seen a place before

- as gnarled and wise as any harbinger

but when I turned and walked another way

his face had changed into a howling wolf

that forced me, pinned me, savaged me with love;

conditioned to the wordless bard I am

- the final piece – which letter to put down?

At dinner, after the world burst into flame,

pans bubble,

onions hiss,

all herbs and spices

have entered our mix

and the fire of a stew

will ladle and soon

be about us, surround us,

beyond us, within us;

warm as a life

that survives its explosion,

we’ll share what is here,

(never thirst for what’s not)

and shout out ‘Thank God’

that the garbage has gone.

Vigour

Scientists can prove

that fire is in the earth

except that - when I light a fire

it crackles up, transforms,

consumes the outer flesh

but earth-fire’s an invisible

inner craze that pulses

out volcano pores,

earthquake eyes,

tsunami tears.

And burning sun?

- a mirror - way - out there - that lights

our earth in warmth

and sweeter fruit.

Ishq Allah

On Sunday morning all drops quiet:

sun turns up and rain ‘pit-pats’ to a stop.

Among such calm - silence lands

hard enough to feel another day.

Outside, gardens light, flags drop.

Autumn time is harvest time;

fruit and flowers, muddy roots

but I can move – my hand wags -

every finger independent,

coupled - separated - whole.

Now a thirst of longing - to be ‘Me’

and a deeper aching - to connect

(like rosy-cheeks of any early true love)

sweet and hurting, stirring up to climb

into my body, out, and find the fire.

Goodbye Summer

Goodbye Summer,

daylight’s getting shorter;

over my left shoulder

light is turning colder.

Will it turn me inward

shut away from contact,

will it leap to Fall,

will it spiral downward?

Will a stranger call me

outward into friendship

or simply turn out needy

sharing all his hardships?

Will he turn out pesky

needing my attention

when clearly my intention’s

to head off into Winter?

Will his name be Peter

asking for the answers

to the harder questions,

will his name be Thomas?

Shall I be like Samson

knocking down a temple

or crawl into my snow-hole

and pray for further sunshine,

tweet of birds home early

and drip, drip, drip of ice-melt

when Spring is in the garden

and I can stretch my bones out?

Or will I freeze by balls off

and Death arrive to take me

and will I finally get that

only Love sustains me?

Handle

I found a door

locked tight;

another door

tightly locked.

Behind a corner

- there – a door,

a corridor

and then – a door.

Mummy – give me keys!

Daddy – help me!

I’m terrified at staying put

(locked inside a boring zoo)

but when a keeper lifts the latch,

I’m scared of bounding through.

Double Word

Writing a poem’s

like playing Scrabble; letters

have shape and value.

Polarity

If I had everything,

I’d want nothing.

If I had nothing,

I’d long for everything.

Everything, nothing

and nothing to everything:

a dot in a circle

and a sphere into a dot:

maybe nothing

fancies everything

so (under the covers)

they love each other

- spirit and form –

and then something is born.

Wordling Andrew

A funny word flies out before

they laugh – and springs towards the sun.

Let them chase it through a door,

pant and run.

Chortling, away it bounds,

giggles as it leaps along,

ringing like a bell, it sounds

a tinkling song.

Hightail as it flies away,

belly laugh – before they weep;

working magic through the day

and then we sleep.

Sigh

Breathe in, contract.

Breathe out, lungs.

Breathe in, heart.

Breathe out, expand.

Hold in, contract.

Speak out, expand.

Hold on, contract.

Let go, expand:

breathe in,

breathe out,

breathe

in and out;

in,

out.

Scrabble and Poetry

 Scrutinizing letters at a board,

can I find a pattern for the most

letters, words and spaces in a twist:

pen inside my mouth to stop the world?

But no - no no, my consonants and vowels

confabulate a shuffled sanity,

click and land, enough, imperfectly:

when nuts are out – stop hammering the shell.

Hearts

move constantly

     have connecting chambers

         crucially are small, concentrated

            laugh or cry at folly of mind games

             link to others – work with eyes, loosely

               hot or cold, cool or warm – drive the vehicle

              feel for destiny inside blackness unknowable

             often become forgotten by humdrum separation

       in a crisis, discover a truth  formerly unbeknown

             small – expand; larger – contract: constantly

               leap when touched – like a jiminy cricket

             work – stretch and pull, pull then stretch

            despite the stretch, hardly ever snap

         open to include; close to exclude

     serve a greater goodness

ultimately sacrifice.

Bring it on

Today I put

pistachio nuts around

an anthill entrance

to see if little characters

- each the same – could still get in;

work together, sort it out

but, first, they dragged the furthest

shells into their mix;

flicking and yanking,

making their tiny context,

more abundant,

more challenging;

ultimately

more interesting.

Combiing the Shadows

A man I had not met

told a story about leaving

England for life

on a sweet Greek island.

Like many tales

it was glances to ground,

an occasional lull

and breath;

reflected shadowy trees,

gaps between leaves,

sentences unfinished,

words unsaid,

letters, spaces,

sighs.

Hopper

A dusty track,

a cricket leaps.

As I approach,

she leaps again.

Slowly, I step up to

stalk the little jumper,

hoping for surprise.

She stands cool as rock

until, with a blur

of high air,

opening

her gossamer,

she floats and weaves away

into a spectacular destiny.

Glimpse

At the top of my favourite

Lakeland mountain

I catch the sea

glinting distant – flat and grey.

Peering from

the summit cairn

a far skein of steel

glints, communicating.

Of course, it’s nuts

to think the sea could really

communicate

although, when close,

it never stops talking,

waving and rushing,

supporting and killing;

impeccable, unrelenting

salt. Different from sand,

electricity or breath:

impossible to own,

upping the ante

- like love.

Feral café

A kitten,

neat as a razor,

leaps on my lap and purrs

like a Harley;

curls fast asleep

with its nose in the folds,

trusting its time to relax.

Next night, we buy the vibrating furball

dinner for our trouble.

Sweet as a swordfish.

You monkey!

Greek Island

Pop music, sunset,

swallows arc at mosquitoes,

boats, clouds and sea rocks.

Listening

Hey kid let mi tell ya mi story;

a story – well – a grandfather story

of how I ran out to the front;

out and back with the ammo mi son.

Hey granddad, ya can join in today!

Let me tell ya about ma new game

- A creed of Assassins – bang, bang:

you’ll never complete it, old man.

Midnight restaurant

Blank.

Black night – black sea

and a dozen people stare out

onto one canvas,

not knowing where they look

- sea and sky their blackboard

to scribble on - from inner blankness

(of not knowing)

until air and water

turn them back

from here

to there.

New mirror

One day, in Greece,

sitting between a catholic church and

caff,

a cherubim waitress

effortlessly

pulled down

a see-through Perspex screen

to keep the breeze at bay

and one man, with grey beard

and silver in his ear,

looked through and back

at me

like an old pirate

wearing my new hat.

The Beatles

What can I say?

What can I do?

Swirling the maelstrom

of an inside-out pop song.

What should I think?

What do I feel?

Love, lurv, luv!

Switch on the amp,

no place to hide,

speakers thump, thump;

I’m satisfied.

North Star

North star

takes a ship home,

like a word

steers a mob

toward sense.

But stop!

cartels are bad

in a modern economy

and spies are searching

for any uprising.

Best to read the labels;

believe in headlines,

sell-by dates

until you open a door,

break into the courtyard

of your own little starlight reality.

Unos

We play the card game UNO

with Andrew:

UNO meaning ‘one’;

a card alone – the ‘last one’

but he has never voiced that word

out loud

saying UNOS – meaning ‘we’

from his first game

absolutely

consistently

and, if like him, you rely on mates

to get you through today

(as you do)

wouldn’t you?

Miracle

Outside a church, one

kitten with a blinded eye

spits on its paw, rubs.

Poetry

Look, sometimes it sings

and sometimes moans.

It write itself through

effort and splurge

from healing dreams.

Sleeping allows dreaming

and sometimes, but sometimes,

we catch a dream in rhythm

- not making it necessary –

but crackling and interesting

because it’s truly sad

to meet people walking

vacantly through an empty

wilderness – sighing,

reminding of ourselves

and, in all the words, one

authentic line might catch

a heart in ways not

logical or thought through.

When it works, that’s the work:

like, one letter could momentarily

turn this world to another

fractionally more unstable

but nascent and waving.

Please come along, it’s your time.

Peter

Good morning sir, how are you?

Put your baggage on the conveyor

- let’s see what shows up on my camera;

the load you’re taking through.

Oh yes it stormed last night

- chickens came home early to roost;

hang on there a mo sir, no rush

to alight. Only angels take our flight.

Instant

Gratify me instantly,

I might – or might not – pay:

joy is on my shopping list,

no anger, sadness, fear.

Grin and grin as minutes, hours,

turn to shadow years;

tomorrow now, tomorrow for

- lopsided smiles – and tears.

Words fail

Can you speak of leaves,

explain the wind

or one man’s shirt

and woman’s nightie

hanging on a single line?

Scuttering clouds,

lilies in ponds;

fallen cars

in a river or ditch?

What permission

came from Buddha,

Allah,

transparent angel

or swinging cross

for you to know

the meaning of such

flittingly

awesome

words?

Old Age

At the Care Home fete,

a set of wooden stocks with

coloured flags waving.

Big Top

Green - ten meters tall;

a Big Top inflates with breath

filling sacred space.

Story

A book’s a book,

where angels

tiptoe in between

twenty six letters

(already corrected)

laughing aloud at fixation.

After all the indignity

of editing by editors,

an inject squirts

a story out of no thing

and angels from a soulful place

dance – here and there – out among

the twenty six, flowing a

Technicolor  dream.

Catch

He does this thing, Andrew,

- statistically different from me and you.

Shouting! Not to make you jump

- but simply for exuberance.

He looks you in the eye, expressing

excitement for any flash

of theatre, a piece of toast, a ray of sun.

Like, always it’s a Xmas or birth day

present moment

and, every time, a bead

of juice leaps from his heart

- into yours.

But only if you’re thirsty

and ready to catch.

Bathos

Today every habit will be cured,

every cliché – cut – to the quick.

Getting dressed,

I put my foot down,

pull my socks up;

put the boot in.

Wide awake a while,

I feed my folly, smile.

Being a Child

Darker, father, faster:

later pater? parcels now are

sweeter (beater) better now

than happy ever after:

softer, laughter longer,

more, not sore and soothing.

Louder, proud and precious;

fuller – dull – disaster:

error, mother, moths fly

to light and flitter frisky,

out of winter’s weather

onto moon of me, now.