The day I shouted at the wind
I flew – my voice – away
and air contorted with the sound
of breath in desperate play.
I didn’t hear it echo round
where congregations pray;
perhaps it will return, rebound,
on judgment day.
A syllable or two,
a vowel,
a consonant or two,
a howl;
a new expression as a ring
into the void, no-thing.
Sometimes he startles when the radio’s on
across the landing or another room
and now he cocks his head to hear a tone
of music playing from an open window
or Andy, hobo, whistling so his breath
steams and echoes up the viaduct
on cold and bitter evenings in late fall.
A big one’s when his lady suddenly
(opening doors or putting trainers on)
blows away the mortgage, bills and train
with music more than any string or pipe
could voice a childhood feeling with a jolt:
that stopping now of everything that seems
- human breath transforming in a song.
There’s nothing there at first;
nowt at all,
until the start of a small bubble
expanding sound,
growing up rapid
like a seed of beginnings
swimming in softness
ready to birth
out from the lung wrench,
in-breath, then out-breath
- crucial in moments -
touting a burp from
intent - and a climax;
‘Send out the dove’
In my head, again, - a picture of tomorrow;
subtle, endearing, scary
as if I’ll be attacked (the sky might just collapse);
- go tits up
in a workshop or the meeting, or a bus ride
or the traffic lights at red
engendering a little fear, a fluttering heart
and shortening of breath,
even though I’m sitting up in bed
the night before. My need’s not guts or bravery
but to stay aware, inspired as a baby,
walking steadfast and assured into a mess,
witnessing respect
and do my work - my best.
Many yards they walked
over rough ground - three ducks to
share our bread and wine.
Wobble to the bathroom mirror,
slippers on formica tiles,
(older than they ever were)
stained a little, thin,
look on, and in, there for a hope of
stars or suns and galaxies
more light-years than pronounceable
and way beyond any dancing dust
but, no, I see a face;
misty in the silver, glass,
ancient as my father, yes,
fading now but, yes, with eyes
(retina and iris)
burning still, a facet.
Ask a stranger’s name
and call them by their moniker
again, again, again. Smile!
Pose some little question
about themselves, a happenstance;
their tiny likes and dislikes, fads,
(and food’s a classic - fries and puddings,
vegetables, drink?) Persist.
Question ‘are you married?’
with a little twinkle
then ask them, now, to help you
in some small way – like, get a drink.
Call them by their name, again.
Say ‘I love you.’ Smile.
that two little legs get up and dance
a tango, quickstep, tap away
and wiggle to YMCA.
“‘Cos when I skip, expressing me,
a little spark enflames, gets free,
and dreamers reach an extra mile;
stand more vertical – and smile.
“Cynical’s an easy stance
(static) – no, come on - and dance.
“Two legs, one leg, arms out, balance
on your day – a happenstance.
“Wear a hat - or silly pants
- let it out - Exuberance!”
a spiritual man (say, a preacher);
his favourite saying went like this,
‘Rocks are hard and water’s wet;
that’s the way it is!’
He’d parade in front of
hundreds of eyeballs, talking love:
I can see him now in photographs,
mouth open, spouting stuff
on rocks and water: fair enough.
Today - I realized that he was partly right –
bending knees, on this and that, I also felt
that water sometimes turns to ice
and even rocks can melt.
I
I’m
I’m a
I’m at
I’m at a
I’m at a X
I’m at a X roads
I’m at a X road
at a X road
at X road
a X road
X road
road
I X
A goblin, imp, a dervish plays
among moving curtains, behind that veil;
grinning, winking, stickerly, fey,
thumps my shoulder blade time and again.
Sometimes cloudy vapour rises,
hovers up - above - and sways,
likes to drop a headache, haze
and hang there just above my brows.
Now and again my elbow jolts,
a finger flicks and points this way
along a rounded, hard-edged nail.
Cavort and dance, laughing like rain,
the veil uplifts and vapour flies;
two bright eyes shine out with fire.imagine he’s sitting at a table
in a kitchen with hams hanging on hooks
and eggs a-frying (garlic and fennel)
- in a time before time - and a small sun
burgeoning outside - lifts the sky
(and a vigilant hare) into listening heart.
Around that scrubbed table sit three people;
the son of my second son’s unborn son,
an old man who’s been here before – and a
tweed bedecked lady, lipsticked and twinkling,
holding a cigarette and whiskey glass.
‘What will it be?’ says the old man, earnest
as an owl. ‘Performer.’ says the lady
‘Stand-up or West End – he might make it big!’
“A hero,’ says the boy ‘master or leader!’
Andrew’s head drops and the man simply smiles.
‘They need me’ says Andrew ‘my cross will be
heavy. Down’s Syndrome for me, mate, let’s go.’
‘Musical please!’ says Andrew
‘What will it be? Maybe Cats,
Chitty, Chitty Bang, Bang or
Joseph – a good one, please - a favourite!’
We sit eating breakfast,
porridge, like Bears in a story.
Loudly, he soars into ‘Les Mis’
‘He’s like the son I might have known!’
Sudden tears pour volcanoes of water
as my throat drops on-down into wells;
‘the son I might have known’ sees much further
than any old heartless ambition
and an angel carousing beside me
smiles from his face like the sun.
