Play

Sons, alive in my mind’s eye,

wear guitar and tee-shirts, lyrical ones

strum and (in sing-song) blue notes fly;

faces aglow like hot stones.

Strings are shimmering side-by-side

and faces stand eager in the bar-room door;

enjoying the craick, along for the ride

of brothers and magical music once more.

Maybe

The first word of any new day

could maybe be yes or maybe no;

both words seem equally valid

reactions to onrushing light.

Maybe look romantically back to yesterday’s love

or glance for tomorrow and hyena laugh:

inexorable fate is pushing through now;

growing from substances, maybes and dreams.

Maybe laughter is tearful and ugly's a beauty

- something is nothing – and maybe we’re falling

conscripted by newness, up, into destiny;

hello and, well, thank you, maybe today.