Chameleon

Some archetype

disturbed my mammal eye.

An unmoving,

unblinking,

unlicking

stare

made me swear a dragon

could leap from

a wooden body

and scorch me raw;

eyebrows and hair.

Thursday ghazal

The day of Jesus washing feet’s today,

a day when everything’s replete today.

I’ve gobbled fruit and vegetables down

and made a last attack on meat today.

My stomach’s full, my teeth have done their work

so now’s a time that we could meet today.

Can we tell our truth in love and coldness

or fire up anger, lies and cheat today?

All circles start and finish on a rim

and round and round we could repeat today.

It’s warm in sunshine, colder in the dark

and air is shifted up by heat today.

A smoke ring turns, expands and spirals up;

a day when everything’s complete today.

Good Friday in Spain

Together, we march like frail

wheat brushed by breath

on the day that Jesus fell

- the Friday of his death.

A procession sways for an hour,

a thousand people strong

and an empty cross with flowers

suggests that he has gone.

It’s obvious - but still that old shock

of death, a rising sob, an ache,

until a group of women gossip,

yak, distract my mind in a race;

closing up my heart as we step

to the rhythm of a funeral pace.

Easter Saturday

My mates mean no harm

- they just lit a mock Judas

with fireworks and a petrol flame.

After all, we’re his enemies

so why not dance and kick ass,

enlightening all the darkness?

He sold the Big Man short

by dobbing Him in to the guards

so, when the fire dies,

we’re strong and hard enough

to torch this place

with a blaze of our own tough love.

Friday

Welcome to a market in Spain

where there’s a statue of Jesus at Easter

holding up one hand

from a thrown-cloak of red satin.

Close by – women statues - and a

carpet made of palms

where he treads in slow steps and

raises that left arm.

Everything seems new in late March:

he has a shining face,

gleaming and bright-eyed.

Around his fingers, a light touch

and I get the sense of heading into space

slowly – like in a crawl

with a bending neck; astride

his shoulders a cross, that’s all.

A Word

I find a word

on a galloping journey

and wonder, wonder

what to do with my new found word?

I could breathe it out and cut You.

I could use it to cut into Me.

I could throw it – plop – into an ocean.

I could bury it deeply – dug with a weapon

or I could hold it gently;

notice a shape, a tingle, a texture;

a thumping background rhythm

and I could make an offering.

Extraordinarily,

I could let it be.

A Real Poem

Time to speak. We’re sitting in a circle

uttering poems in a very British

order. A lady

reads the Lord’s Prayer – a new translation

from Aramaic - and – it’s not even a poem!

Rhymes and meter missing,

as far as I can hear.

Upsetting. Right -

but the room seems to quieten -

listen - and vision

softens, blurs - as if -

kind of – hard edges turn gorgeous, creamy

and a rosy heart settles,

well, into silence.