Vigour

Scientists can prove

that fire is in the earth

except that - when I light a fire

it crackles up, transforms,

consumes the outer flesh

but earth-fire’s an invisible

inner craze that pulses

out volcano pores,

earthquake eyes,

tsunami tears.

And burning sun?

- a mirror - way - out there - that lights

our earth in warmth

and sweeter fruit.

Ishq Allah

On Sunday morning all drops quiet:

sun turns up and rain ‘pit-pats’ to a stop.

Among such calm - silence lands

hard enough to feel another day.

Outside, gardens light, flags drop.

Autumn time is harvest time;

fruit and flowers, muddy roots

but I can move – my hand wags -

every finger independent,

coupled - separated - whole.

Now a thirst of longing - to be ‘Me’

and a deeper aching - to connect

(like rosy-cheeks of any early true love)

sweet and hurting, stirring up to climb

into my body, out, and find the fire.

Goodbye Summer

Goodbye Summer,

daylight’s getting shorter;

over my left shoulder

light is turning colder.

Will it turn me inward

shut away from contact,

will it leap to Fall,

will it spiral downward?

Will a stranger call me

outward into friendship

or simply turn out needy

sharing all his hardships?

Will he turn out pesky

needing my attention

when clearly my intention’s

to head off into Winter?

Will his name be Peter

asking for the answers

to the harder questions,

will his name be Thomas?

Shall I be like Samson

knocking down a temple

or crawl into my snow-hole

and pray for further sunshine,

tweet of birds home early

and drip, drip, drip of ice-melt

when Spring is in the garden

and I can stretch my bones out?

Or will I freeze by balls off

and Death arrive to take me

and will I finally get that

only Love sustains me?

Handle

I found a door

locked tight;

another door

tightly locked.

Behind a corner

- there – a door,

a corridor

and then – a door.

Mummy – give me keys!

Daddy – help me!

I’m terrified at staying put

(locked inside a boring zoo)

but when a keeper lifts the latch,

I’m scared of bounding through.

Double Word

Writing a poem’s

like playing Scrabble; letters

have shape and value.

Polarity

If I had everything,

I’d want nothing.

If I had nothing,

I’d long for everything.

Everything, nothing

and nothing to everything:

a dot in a circle

and a sphere into a dot:

maybe nothing

fancies everything

so (under the covers)

they love each other

- spirit and form –

and then something is born.

Wordling Andrew

A funny word flies out before

they laugh – and springs towards the sun.

Let them chase it through a door,

pant and run.

Chortling, away it bounds,

giggles as it leaps along,

ringing like a bell, it sounds

a tinkling song.

Hightail as it flies away,

belly laugh – before they weep;

working magic through the day

and then we sleep.