Flow

On a moving train I can’t rest

on the ground any more, unsettling

and flying on backwards through air

so the earth flows like water

in blue and old grey.

Trees and green fields, even houses and sheep

don’t wander but flow,

turn to liquid and stream.

No rain, only membranes of glass

from a train and a trembling of torso

so fluid and flowing like blood or a lymph,

amoeba or nymph, on an engine

vibrating my feet and my bum

‘til we stop, ‘til we stop, moving on.

Master

When a kid with Down’s Syndrome lumbers along

in a coat of clumsy, squinting to find

a level parade, treading mostly alone;

what do you make of this jack-of-no-trade?

Revulsion, compassion, empathy, fear,

anger or sadness because strangeness is near

- what do you reckon, or, what do you feel?

‘owbout respect for a teacher over there,

a mirror of openness, simpleness, now

enjoying a journey with others and me

as a master of dancing, exuberance, now

and with a strange little question ‘What’s the real deal?’

like, your last day on earth, well, what will you choose

- one million dollars, a hug, celebration,

or smile?