7 ages of man

-Birth
first breath
breath
breathing
breath
final breath
Death-

Hairs

All my hairs advise ‘it’s easy innit,
growing up and slowly changing color?’
never the same, although it does appear so.


Never the same in all their fine particulars;
length and shade or light and oil or texture,
sometimes slimy wet and often straw dry.


When they’re bright and shiny, new and silky,
everything seems easy when we’re younger:
pushing atoms ruthlessly away
and up, and on, and on and up to grey.

Humility

Humility – it wants
to split open your head
and plant a seed
behind both eyes.


Humble – the plant
sprouting, because it could
find water, food
and bumble bees.

3.15 am:

ridiculous to contemplate
a bird twi-tweeting outside
or that half-lit hotel ceiling.
I need to sleep, I’m not lying
when I say I should be flat out.
Instead I’m writing a poem, unbidden,
trying to get into heart, any heart, my heart.


The sun rises in spite of everything
and fierce birdsong’s there, twittering bright.
I wait for harder sunlight,
knowing inevitable daybreak, another day flying,
reckoning a day is up and, lucky dip, it’ll be all right.

Andrew's Intensity

After all
you do need
to visit a Musical,
sing and clap and bounce,
leading a crowd in their approbation
of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang;
every fibre tuned into
the harmony
of it all.

Inaudible

Breath gives
movement
in the chest
a lifelong zest
in every instant
a new breath test
first gift at birth
last gift of all
a breathing space
between the hush
a breathing spell
ephemeral
ushering out
ushering in
breathtaking
breathable now.

Double

One day, when not myself, I might just split;
not so I could turn into someone else
but to evolve into a new myself.


No joke, no time for tiny giggling fits:
oh no, one day I might well have the balls
to make a stand and stand beside myself.