Over nine months

from nowhere and nothing,

with my tiny hand I twisted a dial

briskly and it clicked, stopped, turned around

and, imperceptibly, like a pantoum,

gradually drove the pulse of one old base drum

all in motion, deceptively slow

in moment after clicking moment –

until, by autumn, leaves are caught in wind

and days tip forward to December’s end

tumbling, ultimately, nowhere, nothing.

Google

Lit from behind, the keys

on my MacBook spark a room:

simple enough for shadow

in wee black hours – a winter morning.

But what to say of the keys?

A digital schism of light

inviting some sort of story

or mystery from my fingers

leaping for future screens

(black and white like Chaplin)

bridging our banks of time

hoping to light the night

of a future indefinite human

moving their eyes left to right

but looking not so very far

as letters light up on their forehead

projected by backlight shining

and grabbing at irises, brain cells

hurling the past to a future

simply by pushing a key.

Love Sonnet

We journey on as special way,

we got to somewhere, not the end,

there’s still a lot to do and say

as lover and as friend.

Feet will bear us, lead us to

our presence, we will hear and see

as if we know

a great way to be free.

So we go on,

no time to hide,

no cries or moans,

a man and woman side by side.

You’re in my heart and in my mind;

joy before and  joy behind.

On the Afghan trail,

red ants and black ants

face off and then shy away;

busy-ness as usual.

Show

Eight minutes left and the oboe aums

behind conversation, anticipate

flutes and piccolos tinkle, laugh

as the head of a cello dances from the pit,

a snare drum celebrates, chatter boxes chat.

Sky-blue balcony with gilded trim,

tipping water bottles, men in jackets.

Two minutes now and the buzz increases.

Sondheim’s a word in my phone, you bet

and he strains for truth, beginners please.

Speaking in Tongues

Can I forgive the youth in the park

who plucks out a rose for the laugh?

Well I never!

Can I forgive the mother who shouts at a child?

Well I never did!

Can I forgive a girl who leads-on a boy?

You don’t say!

Can I forgive a boy who leads-on a girl?

Shock, horror!

Can you forgive the surgeon who looks in the eyes

of the man in the bath with his burns

and the doctor, sighing, turns his head

not knowing the nurses had worked up some hope

and who turn on the man with a tongue-lash to re-kindle fire

into love, and then dress down the doc with their words?

A moment

Stag foraging:

white forefeet

the work of

a master:

why would the hunter

creep through longer

grass to focus

your chest?

And where has the

doe gone, quartering

further back

in the green glen?

Until she wanders

out and touches

nose to soft nose

upwind

taking a chance

together and enticing

him back under cover

of high green shrubs.

The hunter’s finger stretches,

turns, determines now what

these two wastrels

will become.