Fourth Anniversary

First  - a singleton -

a beaming sun

(one single leaf of grass)

but married then into a couple

completely satisfied

but how accelerated

into four whole years

as if the one has amplified

through sunny days and snow;

we grow, my wife, we grow.

Grey skies

but, look, a turn of cloud for sunshine

winking – to submit a whole new word today;

vibrant, iridescent, unstoppable

with smiley face and no conditions,

bigger than the Himalayas (beyond desire):

a simple little single word, compressed.

My question  - can I really trust it?

and ask – ‘if I inspire a fire inside myself,

will a tiny word flow back with water force

through chambers up from shimmering earth,

meet itself and melt?’ Under grey skies.

Singing

South West England, Summertime.

The base and 6-string are playing

brightly one Monday afternoon

under a soft watercolour sky;

the base and 6-string are playing.

It’s not clear who started this throb

around tents and camping chairs,

teacups and painted starlight stones

but the base and 6-string are playing.

And, in the darker recess of a plastic tent,

one unwashed Down’s boy sings

across perfectly imperfect repetitive notes,

from a hopeful wet tongue laving for dinner

now the base and 6-string are playing.

Propose a new music, un-housed,

less predictable, in a strange tongue,

held by a deeper fret of purple sound

from a true gut; a resonant truth

laughing like a tambourine

when the base and 6-string are playing.

So Push

One o’ clock, North Yorkshire

and we cycle hard - cogs

chuckling into spurs and chains

on-and-around sprockets

oblivious to tops-of-trees parading

front-to-back and the Howgills

rolling more slowly

in parallax and majesty

until we hit a low dip

and start a long climb

feeling breath and thighs hot.

Looking far away to the left

(in a miracle of trigonometry)

a far mountain rises mysteriously

like in a cardboard theatre.

Pushing and climbing, an earth-top also climbs.

Cycling more easy, our summit stays and shivers;

a fine old miracle in time.

Now the road descends and our peak slo-mo’s

away; no longer fighting gravity

but sinking like a drowsy head

obscured by trees and foothills, green.

And it helps me feel the sun

and how she seems, every day, to light and rise

imperious - and how, if we all freewheel,

eventually her rays maybe wouldn’t

be bothered to rise either, and sink. A sigh.
So Push.

Health

Empty now, my breakfast bowl

somberly thinking (‘What is Next?’)

of blue, green, yellow powder pills

and a brew of side-effects.

The Day After

Twenty four hours

divided

into minutes, seconds (even smaller)

moments

but, looking back,
only by story, metaphor, simile

can I Feel-that-Day again

like the sunshine of an orange skin,

(or the journey of a train with volcano cans of beer)

the flesh soft and tangy, juicy as a sponge

dripping ocean sap

and a dream somewhere in between the story of a day;

the sense and the non-sense

warped by brainbox,

itself soft as ripe red melon

fragmented in memory at the end of the day:

pages, physics, juice, included.

Three Spitfires

I

And it wasn’t the moving of curtains like breathing

or the clicking of buildings settling down for the night

but a distant loud roaring of engines and thunderbolts

and his name on the roll-call; insects and kites.

II

And it wasn’t the twitching of curtains like breathing

or the clicking of buildings in the night and the night

but the nearby quiet roaring of blood in the arteries

and the checklists and wheelchairs; halogen lights.

III

And it wasn’t the twitching of eyelids one evening

or throat-boxes sobbing defying the night

but the nearby quiet roaring of blood in the arteries

and inbreath – and outbreath; - emerald flight.

Oh Emily,

because the train had stopped for God,

it also stopped my breath –

the carriage held the two of us

- my fractal soul – and Death.

We both stepped down – ‘Mind the Gap’ –

and neither He nor I

looked back to see what we had left

inside the carriage aisle.

We walked along the platform edge

but dragged no suitcase there,

ignoring all the yellow lines,

already paid – the fare.

Our ticket passed through turnstiles

- we felt the tangy air

and sailed away – in Charon’s boat -

- On time – At Last – Aware.

Slow – our ark sank in the sea -

explored a wreck of pain

- until I saw a bait - and line -

- hopped on another train.

Friend,

look across a forest glade at me.

Every green leaf in movement and a breeze touching.

From my side, I see multitudinous waving

and You.

                     You hear another voicebox

                     asking hard questions;

‘Would you like to join my dream?

Will you let me join your dream?

Why cross this glade?

How far can we reach?’

Look across a river at me.

Cold water spinning us far

if we jump together now.

                        But would you jump if I jumped

first and would I follow you?

“Would you join my flow?

Will I take your journey?

How far can we sail?

Can we swim upstream?’

Look across a caldera.

It’s hot in there and would kill us quickly

so let us walk anti clockwise.

                                    But if you circle, and so do I,

we will not meet, denying heat.

‘So shall I stop and wait?

Or will you wait for me?

How long will we linger?

Or turn and slide away?’

Look from a mountain top back towards me.

Shall we drop the nonsense, friend?

Together. Leap. And fly!

At Easter, well

I know it’s reckless

but

imagine you were God – not really God

but more a concept of a lamb and lion God

and sent a dove into a North-South earth-ice

and fished for men inside the East-West wind-fire.

How do you feel inside your spirit heart?

Would you turn out to become a little cross?

Book of Mormon

The theatre safety curtain shows

a cloudscape reaching blue aflame

like fiery ascension

or manipulation by a politician.

From the melee, every face arriving

encounters programme, iPhone

or partner, with senses conniving

craftily before a Big Show.

A trumpeter is practicing scales

clashing with the theatre of buzz

but the war ain’t started yet.

Drums overcome that puzzling trumpet

with an all American grin, anticipation,

firepower. Shock and Awe.

On the plane to Marrakesh, a

nine month old in nappies

played at peek-a-boo

reached out stubby fingers

wanted stranger touch.

Words were far beyond him,

contact made by palms

slapping all the tourists

getting fingers on.

We had sat in silence

‘til this terrorist

came upon our handsets

broke into our souls.

Magic

Near to Jung’s Big Red Book,

a bunch of roses – multitudinous

splashing – not logical

but simply pressing the effort

of crazy existence with no collateral.

Magic is rare and difficult, colourful,

but impelled by gusto and stupidity;

voracity of jester, drunkard and clown.

We need to make room for fools because,

in the end, there is nothing to understand

as wind rattles a casement,

spilling a scent of arcing flowers

and reasonable and unreasonable stand

shoulder to shoulder, bow in acceptance.

The Dimmer

A Boy pens a sun like a smiley tangerine,

a Girl bounces steadily on her trampoline.

Mother makes tea and beams down on her family.

Father gives presents to them all on Christmas day.

A boy stays out late because there is a party.

A girl texts her mother and calls her new boyfriend.

Dad pens agendas and heads off for the Boardroom.

A boy fights mummy and father in the pantry.

Girl loves the heat of a smelly double poster

and sun shines light into cracks among the shadows.

A Boy gets his first job loading in a warehouse,

a Girl tries out loving with a few men and boys.

A Woman is married, settles into offspring,

a Man weds a girl with a single golden ring.

A new Boy is drawing a sunny tangerine,

a new Girl bounces on her Christmas trampoline.

Red and White

White cells are warriors parading through the bloodstream.

Red cells are powering the big pump up to speed.

Red wine and forehead, furious as bumblebees.

White wine (by sweetness) settles into calm.

Red cells propel,

white cells ignite;

delegates in lubricant, security and thrill

dancing a quickstep around and around.

But why circulation of paleness, intensity,

angry, protecting, hurting and calm

but for tall stories of wellsprings and bonfires

granting my chambers their work another day,

sharing the real stuff in redness and whiteness.

Red wine and white wine are luscious today.

Bard

When Shakespeare chose to pick up a pen

he set a flow of ink in motion

with every  effort staggering

a nib - back, right, away - and scratching

catching black and in blue ink

his thoughts and feelings lurching out

(single words on a page revealed)

and thoughts and feelings lurching back

to head and heart from whiter spaces

between the letters, words and lines

(that’s the Shakespeare he concealed).

The Truth may Vary

I spoke to my doc and an old journo friend:

‘Under the sun, nothing is new’ said one.

‘The only constant is change,’ said the next.

‘Only uncertainty’s certain,’ said one

and lastly, ‘There’s nothing on earth you can do.’

But in between these two, our sun arose

and flared out a wave to our feet on the earth,

heads in the air, hands in a chirruping stream.