Dr. Jekyll and Hyde’s Eulogy

He shoehorned his kids to indifferent careers.

He spooned little words into lady luck’s ears.

He fettled his tax return, filling a form,

and wetted the parched through the eye of a storm.

He lashed up a story to tell to the Boss.

He lavished a drink on that man on the Cross.

He braided the hair of his daughters and sons,

cried ‘Havoc’ in paradise, pulling a gun.

He swindled his brothers from plenty of cash

but sensed that salvation was not by the lash.

Utopia called him and, turning away,

he painted his life just a pixel a day

and threw fire and brimstone to get his own way.

Old men should be explorers (Eliot)

Look up, look up, the sun is out;

an Autumn morning lightens.

The duvet’s warm a pillow soft

but birds are busy - piping.

Who cares how come a new sun burns;

sick of lectures, sick of dreams

I put two feet in humble shoes

and leave you to your sleep.

 

Across a moor,

giggling stream,

a lifting fell,

one step more,

listen, breathe,

time - our ticking time - will tell.

The Anti-Misogynistic Misogynist

Women are the weaker sex

so don’t try to convince me

it’s part of a man’s job to listen

because, when you take a good look,

women talk too much

and

men are more intelligent

Also, it’s a falsehood to claim that

men and women are creative together

meaning that

both sexes are equal - with lots to offer each other

but it’s actually down to a simple truth:

men are stronger

and that

Women

can only create an illusion of having more power than

Big Men

it’s impossible for the two sexes to cooperate

and you’ll never convince me that

Men and Women are equal.

NOW READ EACH LINE FROM THE BOTTOM UP!

Clues

To sing

is such a little thing;

to shine

- across a spur of time.

And when I choose to shine and sing and laugh

I weave and warp a tapestry. Called life.

Friend,

our valleys jump from heather

and run their tiny way

apart - and then together

- towards the sand and spray.

Tenacious,

gracious.

hitting rocks,

catching brooks.

The roaring sea

calls ‘be victorious

in your glorious

dancing path to me.’

Fisherman

Be back in Spring 1915 and head for the Dalesman in Sedbergh, North Yorkshire - nestling under green butresses. Drink 4 pints of  foaming bitter ale and munch on some old bread before setting off up a track into the ever-crouching, trackless Howgill mountains. All snow has gone. It’s a balmy evening, still as boulders, and, although you’re traveling light, that rucsac is heavy and beer sweats out of pores like the chuckling white stream crossing from your left. It gets dark; air cools and moistens. A wind rises so you climb into a bag, using your jumper as a pillow. A few hours later, smell sweet wet grass and see apparent green spears in front of your pointing nose. Pebbles shine and a spider wanders across a real-world near your face.  Stretch palms - there are many heavy steps to go before opening  time.

          Resurrect yourself again or, heaven help you, they’ll be right on your trail.

South

So my shoulder aches (the left one)

- it pokes incessantly  and a sleepyhead

stays awake. This train is full of scruffy

shoes and bad shaves - travellers - and the sky

a springtime blue wash. A southbound chugger heads

down into another country.  Andrew will be home now,

laughing more than most and feeling for rhythm

in a backbeat song or repetitive gearbox. He’ll be wearing

baggy pants and a bright shirt, chortling.

Perhaps he’s tickled by Angels or maybe doesn’t care

about death. When you choose such a fate, then you wouldn’t.

I fly backwards on this train, blind to what awaits

- and kind of not caring. People are reading screens,

papers, trendy magazines; all encoded.

There’s no conversation. Andrew will be getting ready to eat

with the full rhythm of a fine chew on every

forkful. Teasing the juice out. Maybe every

Angel needs a cascade of support. Choosing a

Down’s Syndrome lifetime will burn care

and levels of mercy sometimes unnecessary

for a warrior of the light.  But mostly his ears

are cocked for music and the heart of life,

pulsing energy in a basket of moments.

He rocked as a baby - full bodied – certainly

more than I rock with my aching shoulder and forever

rigid attempts on the guitar. But it’s the connection

he makes in the smile and a twinkle that carves

heart-to-soul and the beat, beat, beat

of warmth in the veins - to go further and longer

than any old southbound train. And his gift is to keep up

the fashion of a smile - or joy - until the chuckling carriage stops.

Dentist

2 receptionists  - and the computer’s frozen.

Clear air hangs outside – so cold –

although these ladies wear their sandals open toed

as if on a beach. Consistent clothing;

browns, blues and greens, no red.

In the corner, dental videos

of procedures – without sound. For this,

we drove here, locked the car, afraid.

She tweaks the keyboard but - still a tragedy

in her VAT calc. The screen is numb. All

to pull faces – by a brief indignity.

She nods us through in the flash of a neon smile.

Is this my fate? – ajar, but strong -

I open the door, wait for the sun.

Register

‘Book of Mormon’ is rollicking hot,

two-by-two dancing, rude - but  (like)  fun.

Andrew and I absorbing the plot

- when a sweet girl starts a honeydew song.

Wide open – an innocent snowball

of pure hope and sun in the morning.

Every note touching bellies and throats,

melting jaundice, judgment, disjoints;

singing from heart in a little face

sweet as dates, light as a veil.

At the interval, engagement is deep:

a tie at the ball, champagne pops.

Andrew holds a fizzy lemonade

nodding around, clear as a cat

‘I’ll marry that girl in the pink dress,

She’s just like me – she is me!’

and I wring small tears ‘I see, my son, I see.’

glance away –  too keen to agree.