Self Pity

Here again - on a train

and on a diet - on and on -

and on a railroad - rattling on

and (though I try my best)

to muster hands and voicebox, me,

I fail and fall and ache inside

while fields and rivers flash-on by:

(like Grantchester) poor me - ah me -

but (oh) what courage when a boy with Down’s

steps away on wobbly legs and toes

out towards uncertainty (unknown)

more brave than many – ever - even muster

depending - surely - on his aching heart

to hold him safe and look and gaze and smile.

Hotel Breakfast

a hubbub,

smooth hum,

in a ballroom

- yum, yum!

Across these tables

travel-stories

told, retold,

revise and hurry.

And, if I listen to

fifty different voices go

loudly out - in time and space

from each their separate place,

I - (just) - can sense:

I am.

Smile

Two corners, some teeth,

a radiance, a reach,

a mouth on the up

by jowls and lips.

Cherry red cheeks,

a heart in a leap,

eyes - diamond – inflate

‘Connect to my fate!’

and yet I’ve seen another kind of smile

- the one that turns (not outside) but inside

reflecting light onto an inner man

as if a hidden furnace needs a stoke

by elements rotating as a fan

that airs an inner joy – maybe – (a soul).

and backwards, I enter the void

before my final mystery

I took a last breath,

I laid in a bed;

wheeled into a theatre

I fell in the street

After finishing work

and had a few kids.

then I earned a few bob

where I toiled like a sod

and got a promotion

then I started a job

and I married a girl

I passed my exams.

The rest is history.

Beauty and Power

Hey look at the colour of yon yellow rose

(the incorrigible edges of crazy plants)

rest and gaze-out from a mountain ledge

(now put on a harness, your mate is the belay)

how lyrically blowing - a lullaby

(from an ageing punk, strutting his stuff)

and a picture window onto the pond

(where a gannet plummets – spearing a fish).

Anger into joy,

fear turns into love

lifting a circle

beyond any 2D

with effort - and glory -

spiral upstairs.

Down's boy at the folk festival

stands,

sighs again,

walks down the street

saying ‘Hello!’ to new people;

bearded drunks, dancing girls, singers

with eyes in the clouds, bellies of beer and boots in the gutter;

smiles as if the whole turning world needs a twinkle

and puts his arm round those who seem slumped or crumpled,

carrying their heavy fate or load.

He walks for maybe half a mile,

working the line, stars

for eyes, teeth

for smiles, sits;

sighs.

Global Warming

Sunlight in the café

lightens up my latte;

I cannot eat one biscuit

without a nob of butter

but maybe I should risk it

and get on - getting fatter.

Make me up a platter

- a plate of scones and butter

with subtle smells, the earth compels

my lips and mountain belly.

I’ll gobble steak and chips here,

pie and pickle, arctic rolls

while sunlight in the café

hardens and grows cold.