Here

Mostly, I do my best to fend off

pointlessness

but here, with breakfast bacon,

coffee, iPad;

I get it down.

Left and right, two

flying finger pads

try to weave a net

from what’s around,

through ears and eyes,

heart and head,

with letters, words and spaces

tying a little philosophical knot

of what the hell is maybe happening,

why I’m here, what the people at the next table

are really saying

and whether one little letter, another word,

will settle, fly or capitalise.

On the radio, a jingle sings

and it’s travel news next.

Push-on, or stop, review;

turn off the mains, delete?

Hello

Feet have

almost gotten

home - through the gate,

the path, a door,

turning green

to grey and brown;

from natural to man-

made - corroborated

by harder edges

and the sounds

of one hand turning

a handle’s practical

activity exhibiting

pattern and habit:

splitting a second. This

has happened many, many times

before - but there’s

a pulse today,

an unending slowness

and a longing old

seeking of senses

zooming their fibres

towards, out, and passing

a dovetail of door jamb’s

open inclusion

compression and feeling

a spot of reality;

a hug with my son

who whispers my ear

‘Daddy, hello;

you’re alive.’

Chaconne

He walks along in personal space

- now - worry a lot,

because there’s a violin case in his left hand.

You never know what’s in a case like that!?

The man stands up and grunts, and starts.

He lightens up strings

as if Bach is here, now,

in present tense: string-tense: a sigh.

Hear sixty three repeating bases,

respectful, alert:

stabbing a bow;

roundabout bow

of melody, rhythm and chord.

Like Hopkins he springs

triumphantly tragic;

grief in Bach’s pain!

Alone! And hear an elbow pull

become scratched - a touch

of homecoming earth-time;

heavenly business.

A solitary man gyrates

and puppets in dance,

grieving, he’s busy,

- a lonely string screams:

so catching and real – Bach’s wife’s death.

Let’s grieve like a Bach;

screech in a bow-string,

grieving vibration.

But Bach is up now – lifting now,

envisioning hope.

Play us to ecstasy:

Heaven and Earth!

Has anything changed since last breath?

A man and his bow,

back in its case, away, walking away

from intimate personal space.

Skimming Hope

I threw a Word

- a big, flat word -

* spinning in seconds *

and the Word rebounded from an ear,

mystically bounced

- sped on -

curtly caught an older eye

(twisted by a stranger’s touch)

but now ~arcing clear and free~

it plops

and ripples out

in hopeful rings;

crying, dying through

one pumping heart.

Rain in my Brain

Rain

plummets

and spatters

consistently

the top of our tent.

North wind pushes

wavering walls,

rumbling,

and then

stops.

Camping

Morning mayhem. The tent’s buffeting

like a mountain lion. Truer than words, it rumbles.  And up

in the sky a huge grey brushstroke stands with light behind.

Today has begun.

Andrew’s asleep and dreaming, snoring,

but smiling. He stirs; begins to dream awake another few hours,

reaching for essences dancing with clay.

Hungry for magic, a boy.

RAGE

Page 1

I need a flashy headline – like RAGE!

Pictures of some naked breasts, a star

a girl, a funny caption, someone brave.

Need a colour scheme to catch the eye.

Centre

Page two is everything – a little story -

then my adverts – don’t be shy –

in a war of glances I need you!

Here you’ll find excitement – no thing too!

Page 3

Now you’re screwed and hammered-in to gaze;

caught within the noose of every thing

but if you want to feel the air and fly

wild and free and laughing, get RAGE.