The Bard

Pull up a Bard from the deep well of time:

he’ll upset a market stall – end to end –

face like an apple and eyeballs that swim

with a love for the sea, and song, and land.

Let’s pray he’ll unearth our divinities,

vibrate with truthfulness, word made flesh

and we’ll laugh at the Fool’s juggling throws;

troubadour, genie, granting a wish

but keep (under wrapping) your silences;

don’t let him question your deeper passion;

don’t let his eyeballs poke out your sadnesses,

panning for gold at the edge of the sun.

His weirdness is love - more heaven than hell

and a jester’s a sage and - so - all will be well.

Week

The day when he decides to do some washing is like the previous week - it’s on a Monday and, when he reads a book into the evening, it’s recommended by his friendly book club and, when he goes to meet his mates on Friday, he starts to feel so pissed that he falls over. On Saturday he swears he won’t repeat that; he’s had enough of boozing and hangovers deciding that it’s time to go teetotal - a vision of a man who’s dry and sober – until he hears from Geoff that last night’s party was diamond – that they need to meet more often; he hangs his head and prays for help, surrenders, on Sunday when his week starts up again.

Song

Sometimes he startles when the radio’s on

across the landing or another room

and now he cocks his head to hear a tone

of music playing from an open window

or Andy, hobo, whistling so his breath

steams and echoes up the viaduct

on cold and bitter evenings in late fall.

A big one’s when his lady suddenly

(opening doors or putting trainers on)

blows away the mortgage, bills and train

with music more than any string or pipe

could voice a childhood feeling with a jolt:

that stopping now of everything that seems

- human breath transforming in a song.