Haiku

To all poets with

writer’s block – a small piece of

advice;- Don’t you start!

To James Bond

Many a theme song

bangs-on about love;

‘Never say never again’

‘She loves you - yeah, yeah, yeah’

but it’s more than a missing

when romance turns off;

a desire for a person

can cloud into tears

and it’s not quite right

romancifying

this quality – love or desire -

let’s not make it pretty

as I twist in the night

(quiver a heartstring)

welling up from fire;

love can feel shitty

and, so, Mr Bond

distract us with sex;

institutions are saved

when your balls lead you on

but pick up a hand,

soften your looks,

for to love and be loved

rescues women and men.

Time in St. Ives

Outside, the wind’s a howling beast,

more unpredictable than dragons

and water lifted from the sea

washes blue sky grey.

Off shore, a killer sea

waves out – then in – predictably

and moon time people crab along

from blinking caffs and shops.

Caressed by sun, clockwork town;

a timepiece ticking on.

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.