T’roof leaks
on t’conservatory.
Around and about
puddles on deck
wrecking red carpet
since 1997
and my missus upset
- just by piddling rain!
Tell you wot, I’ll buy a new carpet
with mi silver credit card
and give ‘er happiness
in a mo.
I copped it, yer,
I buy it.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.Starting small
Coming at you
Fireworks crashing through the night
Floating seeds
Flocks of birds like
Bursts of arrows in a spray
Motorway bridges
Bloody midges
Kids on bikes or roller blades
Cambered roads
Racing drivers
Crowds that walk the other way
Shower heads
Letterboxes
Coming at you, bills to pay
Spiky rain
Avalanches
Objects on the carriageway
Gusty wind
Flashing mirrors
Motorbikes on sunny days
Sparky fire
Stinging rain
Coming at you, blinding rays
Words of Strangers
(Yada Yada Yada)
‘How are you today?’ they say
‘It’s you I’m talking to’ they say.
And, oh, the sweetness in a softened bed,
the pulse of sleep, deep sleep and half asleep;
a dream is coming at you, coming in you,
along the spindle of a gyroscope
and, in a drowthy half-light of a sleep,
golden threads of dreams come swirling through
coming at you, here’s one you made earlier;
preposterous, astonishing: right at you.
So, listen, in a crack between two worlds
where busy half-lid dreamers do their stuff,
coming at you, morning eyes are flickering
and, coming at you, birds fly out from turrets
and, coming at you, moonlit objects knocking.
Knock knock. The water pipes are warming up.
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.
