Friend,

look across a forest glade at me.

Every green leaf in movement and a breeze touching.

From my side, I see multitudinous waving

and You.

                     You hear another voicebox

                     asking hard questions;

‘Would you like to join my dream?

Will you let me join your dream?

Why cross this glade?

How far can we reach?’

Look across a river at me.

Cold water spinning us far

if we jump together now.

                        But would you jump if I jumped

first and would I follow you?

“Would you join my flow?

Will I take your journey?

How far can we sail?

Can we swim upstream?’

Look across a caldera.

It’s hot in there and would kill us quickly

so let us walk anti clockwise.

                                    But if you circle, and so do I,

we will not meet, denying heat.

‘So shall I stop and wait?

Or will you wait for me?

How long will we linger?

Or turn and slide away?’

Look from a mountain top back towards me.

Shall we drop the nonsense, friend?

Together. Leap. And fly!

At Easter, well

I know it’s reckless

but

imagine you were God – not really God

but more a concept of a lamb and lion God

and sent a dove into a North-South earth-ice

and fished for men inside the East-West wind-fire.

How do you feel inside your spirit heart?

Would you turn out to become a little cross?

Book of Mormon

The theatre safety curtain shows

a cloudscape reaching blue aflame

like fiery ascension

or manipulation by a politician.

From the melee, every face arriving

encounters programme, iPhone

or partner, with senses conniving

craftily before a Big Show.

A trumpeter is practicing scales

clashing with the theatre of buzz

but the war ain’t started yet.

Drums overcome that puzzling trumpet

with an all American grin, anticipation,

firepower. Shock and Awe.

On the plane to Marrakesh, a

nine month old in nappies

played at peek-a-boo

reached out stubby fingers

wanted stranger touch.

Words were far beyond him,

contact made by palms

slapping all the tourists

getting fingers on.

We had sat in silence

‘til this terrorist

came upon our handsets

broke into our souls.

Magic

Near to Jung’s Big Red Book,

a bunch of roses – multitudinous

splashing – not logical

but simply pressing the effort

of crazy existence with no collateral.

Magic is rare and difficult, colourful,

but impelled by gusto and stupidity;

voracity of jester, drunkard and clown.

We need to make room for fools because,

in the end, there is nothing to understand

as wind rattles a casement,

spilling a scent of arcing flowers

and reasonable and unreasonable stand

shoulder to shoulder, bow in acceptance.

The Dimmer

A Boy pens a sun like a smiley tangerine,

a Girl bounces steadily on her trampoline.

Mother makes tea and beams down on her family.

Father gives presents to them all on Christmas day.

A boy stays out late because there is a party.

A girl texts her mother and calls her new boyfriend.

Dad pens agendas and heads off for the Boardroom.

A boy fights mummy and father in the pantry.

Girl loves the heat of a smelly double poster

and sun shines light into cracks among the shadows.

A Boy gets his first job loading in a warehouse,

a Girl tries out loving with a few men and boys.

A Woman is married, settles into offspring,

a Man weds a girl with a single golden ring.

A new Boy is drawing a sunny tangerine,

a new Girl bounces on her Christmas trampoline.

Red and White

White cells are warriors parading through the bloodstream.

Red cells are powering the big pump up to speed.

Red wine and forehead, furious as bumblebees.

White wine (by sweetness) settles into calm.

Red cells propel,

white cells ignite;

delegates in lubricant, security and thrill

dancing a quickstep around and around.

But why circulation of paleness, intensity,

angry, protecting, hurting and calm

but for tall stories of wellsprings and bonfires

granting my chambers their work another day,

sharing the real stuff in redness and whiteness.

Red wine and white wine are luscious today.