Self Pity on a train

On a grey winter’s day, this cold’s no joke!

I’m on my way into the Smoke

where clouds won’t break, the sun won’t show her face.

No one speaks, there’s no embrace.

So, what is this grieving for a body’s loss?

In the end, I’ll get my sweet release from pitch and toss

but now it’s time to sow some seeds –little deeds.

Prayer

A train heads west, full up:

Andrew sits by strangers at a window

table. Further back, I rest and so he

chats, twinkles like the sun to

folk who sparkle back. He turns and yells out

‘Daddy!’ every minute, down the aisle, announces

me, my birthday, name, my age, my job, even though

I’m the one supposed to only know my journey’s name

within the secret wrapper of a western face.

Urchin, on a train, has lit up strangers with song

and smile; calls out to his invisible father sitting there

in a rattling carriage – starting to feel warmer -

like a log’s afterglow, like a dozen flames entwined

around a simple prayer to a father from his firstborn son.

Music

Beethoven bawdily twists, as only he can,

beneath a sparkling chandelier in a

central Bruges concert hall – sweet and clear

when a man and his girl start giggling,

taking photos, yelling like fishwives

intertwined with four-stringed instruments

and I feel strong emotion – ‘Shall I, shan’t I?’ urges – you know;

dare I, well, mention it, ask them to shush? When I do lean over,

say ‘scuse me , would you mind being quiet?’ and the man simply

nods, I turn accusing, burning eyes, ‘Are you sure?’ and he

looks away, a little scared. I sit back, indignant now,

fired by inner anger. ‘What if he thumps me

as we leave?’ I say to myself, completely ruining

Ludwig’s capacity. I know this idea – do you have the anger

or does the anger have you? And the string part seethes higher, more

vibrato than ever. Sitting back, eyes closed, I enter the sound

with hundreds around, transported by melody,

letting it go; letting myself; letting my dissonance go.

Stories from a train

Begin with context

(from an inner blank), all you’ve got

these last few days.

Open your mouth and start

to talk. Waggle your tongue and grate

a larynx, poke an index finger

away from the dyke and let out a flood;

a torrent of words that finally, finally,

finally, will have their say.

Winter: central heating;

Spring: try garden wall;

Summer: where you’ve been;

Autumn: snow and branches start to fall.

More fleeting than characters in any book,

twaddle-words fly fast and empty

up to a hole-in-the-sky without the need

for smoke and mirrors, or an aching heart.

Cake

Eat cake,

including all crumbs

until it’s gone.

Imagine cake again;

lingering but different.

So what? A miracle!

OK – contrived and somewhat

cherished by recent events

and stomach hydrochloric acid.

But despite what sages

hint; in that sweet mix, you and I – and you –

can have our cake, remember it too.

An inch of your life

One foot – a blur of sense

Two feet – reach and smile

Three feet – donkey’s hind legs

Four feet – run for shandy in the den

Five feet – parents fall from grace

Six feet – a time of fantasy and hair

Six feet – offspring in the womb

Five feet – piping whistle at the throat …

Sing

Although special, singing

has never been my forte:

I find it hard to feel for sound

and coalesce my heart and mind

with earth and fire without a crowd of

apparitions getting in the way.

But, yesterday, six of us drove out

to a raging riverbank in the frost

and sparked a little fire to dance and sing around

under blue sky. A dusky moon

lit up a warning light. Open mouthed,

carousing to a churning

water slap, we floated cares downstream

and harmonized a rich, brown god

who turns and never stops, as far as

I can tell. At the end, our fire roared with wind

into a start of silence.

                                                Back in

the kitchen, all talk stopped, all

bodies quiet: the moon, floating, somehow

in its blackness, chose to howl; to shine.