Stutter

I

I’m

I’m a

I’m at

I’m at a

I’m at a X

I’m at a X roads

I’m at a X road

at a X road

at X road

a X road

X road

road

I X

Finding purpose (after Emerson)

A goblin, imp, a dervish plays

among moving curtains, behind that veil;

grinning, winking, stickerly, fey,

thumps my shoulder blade time and again.

Sometimes cloudy vapour rises,

hovers up - above - and sways,

likes to drop a headache, haze

and hang there just above my brows.

Now and again my elbow jolts,

a finger flicks and points this way

along a rounded, hard-edged nail.

Cavort and dance, laughing like rain,

the veil uplifts and vapour flies;

two bright eyes shine out with fire.

Coming at You

Starting small

Coming at you

Fireworks crashing through the night

Floating seeds

Flocks of birds like

Bursts of arrows in a spray

Motorway bridges

Bloody midges

Kids on bikes or roller blades

Cambered roads

Racing drivers

Crowds that walk the other way

Shower heads

Letterboxes

Coming at you, bills to pay

Spiky rain

Avalanches

Objects on the carriageway

Gusty wind

Flashing mirrors

Motorbikes on sunny days

Sparky fire

Stinging rain

Coming at you, blinding rays

Words of Strangers

(Yada Yada Yada)

‘How are you today?’ they say

‘It’s you I’m talking to’ they say.

And, oh, the sweetness in a softened bed,

the pulse of sleep, deep sleep and half asleep;

a dream is coming at you, coming in you,

along the spindle of a gyroscope

and, in a drowthy half-light of a sleep,

golden threads of dreams come swirling through

coming at you, here’s one you made earlier;

preposterous, astonishing: right at you.

So, listen, in a crack between two worlds

where busy half-lid dreamers do their stuff,

coming at you, morning eyes are flickering

and, coming at you, birds fly out from turrets

and, coming at you, moonlit objects knocking.

Knock knock. The water pipes are warming up.

Andrew before birth:

imagine he’s sitting at a table

in a kitchen with hams hanging on hooks

and eggs a-frying (garlic and fennel)

- in a time before time - and a small sun

burgeoning outside - lifts the sky

(and a vigilant hare) into listening heart.

Around that scrubbed table sit three people;

the son of my second son’s unborn son,

an old man who’s been here before – and a

tweed bedecked lady, lipsticked and twinkling,

holding a cigarette and whiskey glass.

‘What will it be?’ says the old man, earnest

as an owl. ‘Performer.’ says the lady

‘Stand-up or West End – he might make it big!’

“A hero,’ says the boy ‘master or leader!’

Andrew’s head drops and the man simply smiles.

‘They need me’ says Andrew ‘my cross will be

heavy. Down’s Syndrome for me, mate, let’s go.’

Les Miserables

‘Musical please!’ says Andrew

‘What will it be? Maybe Cats,

Chitty, Chitty Bang, Bang or

Joseph – a good one, please - a favourite!’

We sit eating breakfast,

porridge, like Bears in a story.

Loudly, he soars into ‘Les Mis’

‘He’s like the son I might have known!’

Sudden tears pour volcanoes of water

as my throat drops on-down into wells;

‘the son I might have known’ sees much further

than any old heartless ambition

and an angel carousing beside me

smiles from his face like the sun.

Revelation

Flicking on a little switch - electricity

surges somehow out of darkness into light – !kapow!

my room ignites in sunshine, even

throwing shadow out from ghostly pillows.

How I trust that switch - and how I’d love a key,

or gizmo, shocking realization;

illuminating (simply by touching a button)

personal power, light and clarity!

The bugger is - it’s not like that;

I can’t locate a switch for insight

or a tool transforming sense.

Give me, O give me, awareness

so that irises flex and my waggling tongue

is led by a heartbeat thudding through chambers of truth.

Insect

In a brown hotel room my heart still beats.

I flushed a small black fly down the loo;

it swirled and gurgled, floats like a dot.

(I may flick it out from predictable spin

recover it pointlessly) like memories

laid kicking and insect-like, slowly turning.

Years ago I saw a huge bug battle for life;

a bluebottle whizzed on its back interminably.

But for now I recycle time, rotating words,

on reclaimed paper with recycled ink.

Outside, cars hum; remaking a buzzing

of insects as life-blood - now fuel, and oil.

Everything rotates (except while tears blub

or eyes flash or sweat breaks:) when I smile at a truth.