Today

Waking is a hard attempt to grace a dream,

free from hazy traveling

and, out from the blue-gray sky of morning,

Andrew shouts. (Far away like a lark)

- fibres of sound grab my ears,

swing my flickering eyes. He’s outside,

been for an adventure, saying hello,

holds his hands out to the world.

Good Morning!

                                    I’m tired

and tempted to stay underground,

ignore that green shout

and his trembling cry of intensity.

But I do decide to move up - in one choice moment -

and spread my arms away from dreaming.

He trumpets

a few notes :

dreamscape, magic waking.

Andrew

He simply wants your spirit

as he fumbles for the key,

with a little song that turns a smile

(he stalks you by degree);

attacks your arrogant nature

with questions in a blow

‘are you Jesus, happy, married?;

‘why not?’ he’ll want to know!

He wants your neck to straighten,

to stop you being ‘cool’

with a smile wrapped round a thunderbolt

- he wants to touch your soul;

there’s magic in a reach of hands;

and then the hugging – love –

Count a birth

Once I was foolish enough

to direct magic at the

threshold of a simple fate.

Fortune swam a mother’s womb

(vivacity of random order)

sex’s creativity.

Heavenly lightning bolted

- heat and helix were guided

nonplussed by crazy harmony

- then a single cry was born.

Shoot

I pulled

an air gun

and (at the speed of sound)

another

word flew.

Ghost

At my Aunt’s funeral

the relatives were looking at knees and toecaps

in those little moments where words

feel not quite right – less conditioned

spots of vacancy and mystery

made empty by the undertaker screwing down a lid’s

four corners with a practical turn of his wrist.

Next day we caught sunnier weather

and my Uncle, face alight, skeleton moving,

screwed the top off a whiskey bottle

he’d had his beady-eye on for 21 years

‘You can only drink it when I’m gone’

she’d said;

and the liquid winked in the light.

To be, or not

It’s not a dilemma

when I ask of Andrew,

‘Are you loving your dinner?’

Simple and true

‘I am,’ he says

‘I do!’

Today

Of this world

- how come that boy in front is grinning?

I mean this boy – the one we label ‘Down’s’;

the one delighted seeing us here,

who loves to chew more coupled to his food,

who closes eyes when feeling-fully a taste,

who smiles at every folly

with eyes more soft and clear than tears.

Now, as he starts to sing - a hymn -

I’m not sure of the point of any prayer

and I seldom taste my food

or stroll along for the hell-of-it

or stare in wonder any more.

I long to tell you what to do

and long to be told what-to-do by you

- so please instruct intensity!

Shall we chew? Shall we chew? Shall we chew?