no way can he expect
to go direct
but still he kind of does
look for lazy short-cuts,
buggered up by fear
in a staggering career
it’s hard to see,
reality.
One day, like old Walt Whitman,
without a plot or plan
he starts to make a start
in opening his heart
and sees the sunshine, hears,
a time to stand – and feel.
Standing, smiling free
at a joint of past and present – he
knows we want to take him
on a trip – and won’t forsake him
- in a place - he’s never been,
will we?
And he answers very gravely
when we ask him if he’s brave, he
doesn’t try to please us
but states intensely ‘No, oh no, because’
stronger than Samson
wiser than Solomon
‘I tell you – what - I am – real man –
but – courage? - I’m not Jesus!’
He can’t tell (but pretty sure) he’s not a twit
- self image or destiny suggest - a wit;
writing, rhyming, plotting – talking on and on – a hit
but, when all is said and finally done,
there’ll be a prison, fickle moon and, ah, the sun.
