Combiing the Shadows

A man I had not met

told a story about leaving

England for life

on a sweet Greek island.

Like many tales

it was glances to ground,

an occasional lull

and breath;

reflected shadowy trees,

gaps between leaves,

sentences unfinished,

words unsaid,

letters, spaces,

sighs.

Sea

Exultantly, the sea today’s

like Andrew in full song

pulling up the energy

from One eternal spring

beyond a turning moon rock;

but sailors understand

Divinity sets out from

the edges of dry land.

Other People

Hey, let’s hit the theatre

and watch the crowd.

A constellation

of attention;

eyes away

upon the play.

Catch them, feel them, see.

Angry,

I write a word

in Black and White

then drop the black

and scribble red.

Spikily shaped,

my hand asserts hot fire;

avoids the mystery

of black’s inclusive colour.

Prince Charming

I tie a belt around my waist

and pull its buckle tight

then turn away – a pretty prince,

imperial – and slight!

I walk into my kingdom

deliberate and cold,

showing off the new and gorgeous

purple robe I own.

But then a subject comes to call

and asks me to the Ball;

supposing I would dance and smile

(I so want to recoil)

but when they stoop and plead with me,

grovel, I say yes

and walk along my destiny

to the colour of her dress.

Roof

A dream recedes, unrealized.

Pillow clouds

race below the sky;

dip, evade, outwhisp themselves,

fan out, turn round

and coalesce

into a roof of grey.

More constant than the dreamer

who is a butterfly!

Lord's Prayer for cooks

Ah, the sound

came falling down

into a bowl

I mixed it round

with love and soul

turned up the heat

with sugar sweet

- a lemon cake

was handed round

though overbaked

it fed a crowd

and Ah the sound

came falling down.

Big Log, Brighton Beach

My story is deep rivulets and currents.

Never will you know me: desert

blue and silver sand untwigged me.

I have no sap left for insects;

no pith will ooze your palm. No.

I toppled long ago and now you rest

soft meat here – talk and chew, talk, chew;

not knowing what you do.

Lay hands on me and feel my deeper scars

fleshed with aeons – dead – and yet,

like all illuminated souls,

waiting for my sea of resurrection.

Unlike Rumi, Andrew has no ear

for music. He

can’t distinguish

a minim from a

quaver, or a

minor seventh

from the major.

Although he does

know how to fashion

many notes

with his fingers;

dance with them as

a cat or dervish.

In a word,

a log splashes out,

floats down the raging river

and I shout goodbye.

Andrew

sings like - Elvis to the playground,

swinging on a little swing.

‘Danny’ posing in the mirror,

no one else as interesting.

‘Joseph’ rocking round the school hall

in the Christmas show.

Michael Jackson moonwalking,

fluid as a riverflow.

Thank god, he’s not found Bocelli,

sweet heartache;

- sure as eggs are eggs – that would be a smash.

Salmon

I walk on soggy

grass for a mile

to the waterfall

where, each year,

something of the ocean

swims upstream;

jumping out of wicked water,

lusting out of fullness into

grace and air:

settles and spawns

her mother’s moment

for the pull of a life

as I walk.

Nature's

fruit’s attainable

…by waiting months…longing…

… non existent…present, small…

until up and ripe, tumultuous

and sappy, swollen, rustled, whispered,

waving crowns of treetop.

Worth the wait;

a mystery, round; and found.

Or instant in a supermarket:

hand-out-dosh, unpack

unshake

or lifted in a memory:

like clouds through waving leaves,

juice of a mountain, rainbow, star.

Goldilocks

You never spot the build-up

- how spoilt she gets -

how quietly she turns a door latch,

sneaks down the drive - early morn -

and tiptoes out from Dad’s big house

or mystery how Mummy Bear

decides on the family’s health-kick:

memory-foam, massage-chairs, porridge, hikes

and how this feral girl and bears and story

dance their destinies, in tension, truth.

The Blues

Pencils get sorted out - blue ones

to the left; red ones, grey, white - teams

in colour-puddles; ready for a quiz. Andrew

(as the host) will look intently, set

the questions - only he will know

the rules and which of seven coloured

groups can win each round - and prize.

‘Ready black team. Start the clock!

‘Dodgems, Waltzer – which one?

Milk Shake or Chocolate – choose!’

He questions them on food and music;

marriage, Jesus, stage show, songs

lyric is the key to feeling

and there will be a tie-break moment

between the blue team and another.

Predictably, the endgame settles:

- one team always wins the battle –

rightly, since they are the blues,

and little blue pencils are humble.

Facing away from the direction of travel

we set off at dawn.

A slow start, accelerate

down tracks, rumbling

silver rails. A crimson sun rises

East - skimming trees -

Midlands, into Birmingham.

The gradient’s against her, but she’s on time.

This is how we travel – backwards,

looking out into where we’ve been:

an engine behind

and a caravan of multiple eyes

with a clear view of the back of our head,

pulling. We look away;

focused, unaware

Down's Out

Ladies and Gentlemen. Boys and girls, uncles and aunts;

our time of oddity, bigger-head, thick neck, smiley,

is (at its best) blazing with a pungent oil, lighting

lamps in our tummy or heart which seldom can be shared.

Statistically precious because of our rarity

we shatter imagination, vision slashed away

as you and I make a different jigsaw – train crash

some might well call it – we would say more like a new sound

or music hallowing from fine cosmic dust one night

through a long code you’ve not yet broken. Take us for real

and let go of that frozen window pane of the Christ

or glossy magazine cover with midnight shadow.

Yes, clean the frosted glass and see a new bee buzzing

in Fall or a big pencil that wags and stays in line

long enough to grow an old friend – before bed time.

Can you feel a wire stretching from my belly button

towards you; breathing bubble into breathing bubble?

I adore nursery rhymes and have a large belly

under my blue shirt, like daddy bear. Shall we join hands

as warm as an ancient man who ran-down the mammoth

or woman waiting by ruddy fire and family?

You and I are not Jesus Christ as far as we know.

We’re far too stupid for that. I love you. I thank you.

Relativity

On a train

seemingly

blurry trees

vapor back

pillow clouds

silver track.

Blindly

I stay me

colours turn

endlessly.

Praise be.

Mask

A birthday Thursday – Twenty One today,
first son, Andrew, has games to play;
a book of scary masks to colour;
pirate, alien, monster, mummy.

He can’t see any particular point in
all that tedious colouring-in;
choosing pencils, stay in line,
boring like schoolwork, forced inside

until he gets the notion,
a mask lets out emotion;
a roar, a scream, a drama queen,
exuberance burst behind a screen

of moments leaking a tiny dream
not for hiding - expressing truth.
Out, at last, the real deal
behind a mask – a sparkling me – and you.

Coloured paths on a woodland sign say

there’s a way through the woods with stepping stones;

some blue ones going west into new darkness

or a silver trail ahead into old light

or brown ones lopping out towards my right.

Right - all is solid,

ahead – future history,

left - a big mystery.

Now, time to choose

and early this morning, I drove East

as a crimson sun caught my eyes;

rising up - a separation from land

- up, up and away, from god knows where.

One fission bomb, like clockwork,

ancient and total, emerging from dark.