On the last day,

after all, it’s not been

too monotonous

or momentous either.

You stare out from a

window that isn’t

what it seems.

Nor can you be seen.

You finally got

that reality is

invisible

infinite

essimal.

All you did get, after all,

was to stare awhile and swim like a demon.

Reality transforms from warm to cold,

wet to dry, then rhythm to

cacophony.

Birth and death aren’t gradual,

after all.

Memories

In early April, cruel showers

turn and splash and fade,

without a plan or auto-cue

or credits rolling at the end.

No sleep is possible in this wind

- memories of camping rain

spatter and splatter and splat again

my rooftop tingling brain.

Memories! A tent flapping,

ghosts insistent for remembering

- calling but uncalled for.

Almost, they breathe, look,

aching for texture

as wind and rain let up.

Lost,

he looked into a compass face:

East – the clarity of morning

North – a thump of afternoon

South – the warmth of midday love

West – a poignancy of sunset

… and a little face

winked back, lit up by

midnight’s grinning moon,

asked a tiny question;

‘which direction mate?’

‘Matey, which direction?’

Fatherhood

Originally Pinocchio

twitched and danced like Neo;

caught inside a matrix

of jerky little puppets.

Giuseppe and Marius

saved their special lads:

Pinocchio and Neo

also saved their Dads.

Oh God

Happiness or lousy life?

Head to foot in fear and wonder,

am I in the dark or light?

Will I live as prey or hunter?

Am I plunging in the sea or

lifting wings for flight?

In a swirling world,

will one Technicolor movie

stop my head from worry?

Oh, let me stop ringing this bell;

Oh, let me escape from this shell:

Oh hell.

Here

Mostly, I do my best to fend off

pointlessness

but here, with breakfast bacon,

coffee, iPad;

I get it down.

Left and right, two

flying finger pads

try to weave a net

from what’s around,

through ears and eyes,

heart and head,

with letters, words and spaces

tying a little philosophical knot

of what the hell is maybe happening,

why I’m here, what the people at the next table

are really saying

and whether one little letter, another word,

will settle, fly or capitalise.

On the radio, a jingle sings

and it’s travel news next.

Push-on, or stop, review;

turn off the mains, delete?

Hello

Feet have

almost gotten

home - through the gate,

the path, a door,

turning green

to grey and brown;

from natural to man-

made - corroborated

by harder edges

and the sounds

of one hand turning

a handle’s practical

activity exhibiting

pattern and habit:

splitting a second. This

has happened many, many times

before - but there’s

a pulse today,

an unending slowness

and a longing old

seeking of senses

zooming their fibres

towards, out, and passing

a dovetail of door jamb’s

open inclusion

compression and feeling

a spot of reality;

a hug with my son

who whispers my ear

‘Daddy, hello;

you’re alive.’