Random Stopping

It can be dangerous when the car in front

randomly stops – or comical when a teenager

- walking up the stairs – stops dead

in tracks because a bleeping text came in

and you say ‘Sorry’ as you crash her rucksack.

It’s weird, because a voice inside desires

that we ‘Keep trucking! Keep on keeping on!’

resists an awkward, random stop.

This energy’s the kind that Bannister

used in his first four minute mile – the kind

that every lover sometimes needs to find.

Random stopping never seems a good idea

- ever – definitely not on an escalator

or motorway and Philip Larkin

bluntly knew how many things we talk

about just never happen. He also said that

this one will.

An Angel

is defined in my little on-line

dictionary as a heavenly

being, guide or guardian; more

than google, a glossy magazine,

radio or TV blinking

and ‘omen’ as a prophetic sign

or signal from the Mystery,

Beloved, God or Allah.

Of course, the ancient days are gone

when we believed in angel-notes from

Mother Nature - such as shapes

in leaves or whether birds appear

to fly, uplift and honk along together.

Today I almost saw a kingfisher

catching silver from water in a

river flowing back to where I

came from. Time passes, turns;

of course those days are gone.

Today, for the Down’s boy.

knowing that, sometime soon, you’ll both need to exit a closed door

and, outside, are hoodlums, thugs, dogs and loud bangs;

the best idea is to sit still (mum) and hope.

Andrew is humming a song from ‘Joseph’, looking around

at the TV unplugged and the Macbook (out of battery by now).

After a while, the crashes return and men bark even louder.

Andrew jumps - and shouts – you quieten him,

rising your terror from belly to throat, quivering fingers;

but he keeps rocking and singing, looking around, crooning gently

‘I closed my eyes – drew back the curtain.’ Melodic, softly,

until one big crash on the door becomes immediate ‘I closed my eyes…’

Andrew smiles, goes to the door-handle, turns it slowly.

Paradigm minds

(tough as table

tops) rise until

old corners melt

but every time

they thinks they ‘know’

- edges appear –

desperation,

hold on tight!

Hard-thought-bubbles

protect themselves

from sharper words,

blades or bludgeons

desperate to

keep the same old

boring surface,

inner structures.

Thought-viruses

(precise in a

small jelly-brain)

will finally soft-

-en by ageless

power; blood-red from

our pumping bellies,

adam’s apples, heartbeats.

Rough Mystery

Van Gogh 'God took a terrible lot of trouble with this world study of his' 

Van Gogh says the whole world’s a painting study;

with form and colour, pencil dust

roughly pushed by fingers into arcs

on paper, shining, planned, unplanned.

Stepping back,

loving the action of it,

(and all the time it took)

I bet it feels good to taste

and smell and see

all the nascent parts

emerge and, listening, be.

Rambling

What shall we talk about – what’s up

(we’ve got a little bit of time)

and who will speak and who will follow whom

(what’s new upon this kitchen table top)

and shall we circle round and round

(with eyes and ears and touch and tongue)

giving little pats-on-the-head

(and will we choose to work, eat, dance or sing or sleep)?

Who shall we please and who not please

(tomorrow and tomorrow’s ace

encounters, meetings, semaphore)

or hate or care or love, respect,

or look across the surfaces

and feel for sudden truth - and trust?

Every year

it’s clear

that Xmas day is my mate

John’s birthday

and any old glitter on the table,

scissors and sellotape,

will be in play.

As two festivals collide

he often gets the thought

that, ultimately,  everything unites

although, as he looks out through

swiveling snow,

we know that (deep down) too

it bugs him – because

he keeps squinting to the East,

waiting for the next Jesus

coming - the second one

who will turn the table, soften

his inevitable burden.