Saturday, 13 December 2014
Thursday, 25 September 2014
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.
Friday, 5 September 2014
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.
Saturday, 16 August 2014
One o’ clock, North Yorkshire
and we cycle hard - cogs
chuckling into spurs and chains
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.
Thursday, 17 July 2014
Monday, 7 July 2014
Twenty four hours
into minutes, seconds (even smaller)
but, looking back,
only by story, metaphor, simile
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.
Thursday, 26 June 2014
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.
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.
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.
Saturday, 14 June 2014
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.
Monday, 26 May 2014
look across a forest glade at me.
Every green leaf in movement and a breeze touching.
From my side, I see multitudinous waving
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!
Wednesday, 16 April 2014
I know it’s reckless
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?
Tuesday, 1 April 2014
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.
Monday, 10 March 2014
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.
Monday, 17 February 2014
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.
Sunday, 2 February 2014
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.
Wednesday, 22 January 2014
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.
Saturday, 18 January 2014
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).
Thursday, 9 January 2014
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.