Shy Chris

He walks in a bubble
- slow - or at the double
he keeps out of trouble,
grows a little stubble

and, as far as I can tell,
(when I chatted to shy Chris today)
every bubble’s shiny, small,
contained and neat and tidy

and so we talk, breathe out,
trying to expand our film;
try to merge a personal bliss
or hell before young Cupid’s dart
(or Death’s old rusty axe) – flies
and we bulge a little, weep a little; burst.

Ping Pong

I kid you not. I once was in the Utah
desert when a middle aged lady
looked at a skunk woofing her pizza,
not daring to stop it because of
the pong. A line of toothmarks shrunk her dinner
to a D, a half-zero, a part open tin,
like a button broken or a knob of lemon
bobbing about in a tonic and gin.

But that isn’t my motive here;
it’s more that, when the shaman suggested
we stay up all night guarding our circles
with fire and ritual to stop foxes and wolves,
the lady saw moons in the sky. Somber,
no alcohol, two moons, no kidding.

Warm Welcome

Some mornings I reckon
it’s gonna be frosty;
nose-tingling hoary,
unsafe to walk on

but today, before a new dawn,
I came out my front door
and the sigh of a zephyr
came up from the earth.

Unusual near winter
that the ground sends a balm,
a hot breath, an out breath,
a generous kiss,
rekindling my centre
to let out his warmth.

Fast Food

At a time he sensed was right
up he stood like a reluctant schoolboy
twisting keys in his right hand pocket,
excruciating as an amateur only

can be, and he started to sing, quietly
and human, a song we’d all heard before
- at least for the chorus – and he sang the verses,
growing more confident with our support

and do you suppose nothing else happened
that night as he opened his heart like a rainbow?
A melting of oddness and newness ensued
and the tune that was sung by a small Irish crowd
swelled like a wave from our depth, in a song,
and I filled, overflowed, by the beauty I cried.

Glimpse

We had a chat
about a rat;
yours a giant,
mine - a tyrant.

We made a jigsaw
like a sunset;
an orange (I saw)
you saw red

but only when my fruit
and your new fangled colour
merge do we, in truth,
create an apple’s figure

- and the rat, of course,
was a very helpful chap.

Karma

Monday, he squashed a bug;
Tuesday, he stood on a slug;
Wednesday, ran over a frog;
Thursday, he booted a dog;
Friday, he was angry and pissed
and, Saturday, raided a bird’s nest
so on Sunday he needed a rest.

Next day, he fired his PA,
later, he cut someone’s pay,
labeled his daughter a sinner,
ignored his good-wife at a dinner.
On Friday - he got the sack,
something and nothing hit back;
subdued by old Zeus – with a whack!

Nanny

When a magical child is born,
tiny fingers reach and curl,
little feet are focused on,
each nail an obvious miracle

and once I saw a family trot
beside a pram with Grandma pushing,
Father held up a parasol
to protect a sleeping tot from heat

and Mother used a large and painted
Japanese fan to keep it cool:
a focused scene of mad control
trundling down a cloudy seaside

street: immutable and soundly safe
as if a human cage protects a soul emerged, a life.

New Bard

When the page is laid out
our magazine winks,
aiming to spin through a litany of
images, deeply distracting and rich.

10 step success, we’re branding for viral,
making it glossy, a number one hit;
catching the eyeballs, designing for impact,
chasing celebs for a niche.

Selling, competing dear;
luvvie, the storyboards,
adverts and partners, our vision.

Developing strategy,
SEO, CEO, workflow and cashflow,
strip teasing and fleecing - by spinning our yarns.

Howgill

If you came this way
along a climbing path
you might sit awhile
with all kinds of human notions
until your mind eventually
slowed, senses awoke,
and took in that mammoth
mountain in front – bathed
into sunlight and darting
with swifts.
The wonder of it
could make you kneel and pray,
overwhelmed and tearful,
until nothing arises
and fear itself flies
with a tremulous influx
of Love.

Rehearsal

Same routine,
up at 5;
forgives himself
for last night’s
misdemeanors.

After all,
it’s only words!
Breakfast mind
plots away

and then comes back
to coffee and a roll.
Through a glass, he sweeps

a gaze at folly – every being
and himself - and feels

a sudden thud of peace.

Stalking Flowers

Lilies stand like snowcapped mountains there,
rising green but, strangely, bigger at
the top; kind of inverted, growing fat
the more they stretch away into thin air

and now the flowers bend as if to bow
all heads and turn from green to silky white,
shining, reaching down in patient light;
mouths outreaching slowly, oh so slow

they suck towards the ground with milky shawls
turning slower than an eye can see;
aliens that need an insect’s hair,
cunning, deadly, stirring up a gene pool
into procreation, ruthlessly
blasting out a sweetness everywhere.

Time

I reason, heading West
into a squinting sun

that cloud shapes, dappled
herringbone, will not be around

for more than minutes
before they fall or soar

and make their way back home
in hours or days by plummeting rain

along a stream and river,
freshwater clean,

until, salty as tears, in the sea
after three thousand years

they are blessed again with ascension,
I reason, heading West.

Cycle

No, I say, get off my turf,
my front door’s shut, bugger off.

Hello, I say and think – maybe -
blow a kiss, a smile for you.

Thanks, we say, winkety wink,
have a cuppa, share a drink.

Goodbye, you say, I had a blast
and walk towards a fire, the West.

Butterfly Collector

'I am a butterfly. I am not a butterfly collector. I
want the experience of the butterfly' - William Stafford

Look, you’re sitting in pub
after a nice meal, belly full,
when music hits the juke box – Abba;
sitting in a pub.

Your son starts to dance
Elvis’s hip movements, jumps,
and then with windmill motion, butterfly,
your son starts to dance.

You sit and smile, like many
in this crowded restaurant, amazed at expression,
sitting and watching a dancing boy,
you sit and smile, like many.

Point

The point of a mountain?
Not for sermon,
ascension, huff and puff,
carrying an old cross.

No - high, distant, clear;
attainable in tiny steps,
this mountain’s my dream,
that mountain is hope!

Wall

Feeling thirsty, I
decide to build a dam
today – because I hear
flowing water nearby,
slurping. It’s hot and hard
building up a wall,
brick on ancient brick

until I stand, gaze
at my new dam – my own
creation, standing
thick and strong,
old and new and long,
doing what it ought to
- keeping out the water.

Humility

Hugs escape a heartache left unsaid
because we twitter-on with tongue and mind
and stop a real ability to bless

but, when knees crumble, earth is there
and eyes can glitter – words – astride the wind
rattle into heart and mind along a twisting ear.

Centre

Incredibly enough
om mani padme hung
(famous Buddhist mantra)
only settles chaos

of loudly running, waving infants
on a shuddering train
North from Birmingham
for a flashing moment

and, though I have a seat;
settled, fully fed,
the many waving trees outside
travel backwards as if I’m stopped,

as if I know what’s happening
and, flirting with
om mani padme hung,
incredibly enough, I don’t.

Teacher

‘Stand on the floor’ he said
‘take a chance.
‘Don’t be a bore’ he said
‘sing, dance.’

‘Stand on the stage’ she said
‘gyrating!
‘Disco’s the rage,’ she said
‘dance, sing.’

‘Losing my zest.’ I said
‘No fandango.
‘Duets are best’ I said
‘takes two to tango.’

One Word

Only let it form within our breath once more,
in this moment, waiting for a tiny urge
startling that moment when we form a bubble

and long before the winter rain begins to fall;
before our little sphere floats and spins,
traveling out beyond an open door

and we stand hanging like a stupid doll,
game over, missed the chance to win.
Only let it form within my breath once more.