The Truth may Vary

I spoke to my doc and an old journo friend:

‘Under the sun, nothing is new’ said one.

‘The only constant is change,’ said the next.

‘Only uncertainty’s certain,’ said one

and lastly, ‘There’s nothing on earth you can do.’

But in between these two, our sun arose

and flared out a wave to our feet on the earth,

heads in the air, hands in a chirruping stream.

Poets

Hardy was a misery, Blake the furthest mystery,

Auden was a brainbox, Thomas alcoholic,

Eliot and Kipling – sent their letters rippling,

Emerson a clever one, Chaucer ever saucy,

Dickinson amazing, Whitman went out traipsing,

cummings hated capitals, Owen had a war on,

Larkin was hardworking, Hughes became a laureate,

Tennyson another one, and who was HD?

But Wallace Edgar’s Wallace

tosses Shakespeare sonnets

out into a flat cap

when t’lion et up Albert.

Plenty to laugh at int’ zoo

‘ind ‘im in his Sunday clothes too.’

Wolf

Hey moon

cave mouth

is lit

for cubs

and us,

my mouth,

to play

with all

the crunch

of bone

and drink

a beck

and crouch

again

stalking

the roe

who chews

the grass

and stares

at moon.

Bloomsbury Fall

Today I strolled

in footsteps

of T.S. Eliot’s orbit

of Russell Square.

Leaves were falling

and trees apparently

settling for a bitter pill;

their frosty pixilation.

But a warm sun was out.

I kicked waves forward

to a waiting underground voice

‘This train will stop at Morden.’

Yorkshire Traveler

A grand job,

cheers for that

gluten free

Yorkshire pud.

I learnt on t’cruise

a bloke’s repute

is a fractal

of one’s food.

IF (after Kipling)

If the world was how-less,

instinct would be master.

If the world was why-less,

motive would be clearer.

If the world was who-less,

freedom would be simpler.

If the worlds was when-less,

only now would matter.

If the world was where-less,

self would be the fixer.

If the world was what-less,

all would be a wonder.

Go Fish

At this time of year countless little fish

swim in shallows of the Aegean sea,

newly born there, quick and flickering

cutting slick water under bright sunshine.

Incoming and outgoing waves sensate

and slowly pebbles turn to integrate.

Nearby spots of flotsam move more softly

but, best of all, darting, diverting black fish

seeming to dance in their idealism,

safe and quick, inquisitive.

I’ve seen them before and caught their spell

but this time I look more closely, turning

eyeballs in tandem with an alien

environment that I’ll never discern.

And I see not single fish but, always,

there are two fish – a black darter and a

white partner, arcing effortlessly as one;

nimble and absolute, together.

They are mating, surely, invertebrates,

black and white, peace and space, united.

I show them to my wife as a miracle,

duck even closer, then step away,

stand back.

Waves turn. Like a perceptual puzzle,

two fish, lively, diverge, turn back to truth

and become one tiny silver creature

making its way alone in the ocean;

an explorer sucking life, mouth open,

eyes awake; this way, that way, any-way,

projecting black shadow from a bright star

onto our waiting earth.