Farmers

Rough hewn, the men who turned this land,

who milked the sea, who fished the air,

who stacked up walls that soon contain

a farmer’s heart, a farmer’s fire.

Preposterous, an angry moor

transformed to fields of friendly hay;

to trim a beard of barleycorn

and lead his cows to school each day.

Preposterous to grow his bairns

by raking silver from the sea

or netting birds that laugh too loud

and hares that leap like butterflies.

Rough hewn, a face that falls to west:

his body leans against a wall

and whistles every tune he knows.

The point of rest? So he can toil.

Merlin

I wake at five o’ clock

every morning this week

with no one else in the house

and now remember Sunday dinner,

slow eating like Arthur’s knights:

 

Andrew, Merlin, holding court.

 

He knows the names of days,

months, even seasons, but

has no time for clocks

when he sees a throng

of mates around a table

 

and nudges them into song.

 

He knows more than kings

that fortune has no era

finer than this moment;

that now it’s time to sit,

smile and clap in time:

 

urging that humans unite.

Smash

I lurk on the left at a bar vibrating

(the beat-box is loud alright):

my drink is drained, throat like a campfire

with a barmaid busy on the right

 

but, in between, an invisible force-field

is clamped in a column to the bar

unseen, unstable because, as she approaches,

the waitress fades away.

 

I burn and blether inside a bubble

when she lurches back to the light:

I swear she desires to slop me a glassful

but the obstacle won’t let her loose.

 

The band is booming, the funk is fierce,

I sizzle in personal space

unbeknown because of a barrier

of tension that pushes her back.

 

I shake and shout and waggle my wallet

but the barmaid won’t force through the fence

when up bowls a boy with a smile like a sunset

and smashes resistance, busts up the ban

 

on the Smashed.

Musicals

We played today a game of ‘Joseph’

with every tribe of Israel named,

the colours in a dream recounted

easily – all twenty nine.

 

What a knack to ride on waves of music;

peach and violet and ruby and ochre and blue.

Delight wells catching

a given rhythm.

 

Imagine there has always been an inner

pulse, force, an energy of sound:

imagine I could truly listen,

donate a gift of total attention.

 

The music stops and a game pops away.

I think about TV and dinner.

Different musical next:

Phantom.

Prospero Kisses

We are such stuff as dreams are made on…

Snaffle another drink, dearie,

a little drop more, a splash,

to get me through this dull, dull play

empty me into the trash,

gobble the bottle and, dearie mine,

shuffle along in line;

Prospero’s here in a couple of mo’s:

Shakespeare gets me so!

…and on us - in us - of us - dreams are made.

Super Hero with Down's Syndrome

‘Look Mom, at a Super Hero sitting on a chair

inside our little living room in Super Hero gear’

The Hero’s eyes are hooded orbs of strange tomfoolery,

un-prepossessed and out to tackle any evil deed.

 

Fancy a party, a twirling, twist and shout?

Disco bopping, let’s go shopping, flop and smile and

chat with strangers, funny folk,

who don’t need Super Heroes - but do

 

enjoy fun; a grin, a hug, a sparkled eye-to-eye

and laugh out-loud at crazy pranks that Super Heroes play.

Pre-eminent in mischief,

shenanigans and winning smiles.

BreakDance

I walk towards a school-house

through sizzling evening rain;

I’m heading for a disco

ominous in my brain

but I know my son will be dancing

out and into my brain

 

but only spotlights boogie,

colour surging round

on empty wooden floorboards

spurred by beatbox sound

hammering walls and my brainbox

in pulsing waves of sound

 

and out from the dark he races,

bounces into the beat,

spins like a whirling dervish

twisting up the heat

Elvis on the dance floor;

a host, a hit, in heat.

 

What is it with this dancing?

What do I need to learn?

A welling in my heart-source;

a love, a pride, a burn?

Expression of the vital

teaching turn on turn.