Man on a Train

Talk to him? Not really!

That story will inevitably

bore and become a sly window to my

own internal mirror hall – impermanent

as plummeting carriages.

I guess this train has scuttled

North and South a thousand times

and seen a share of drama,

snow and tragedy. But could I simply

be here now and let it flow?

OK, I’ll talk to him, connect our

eyes and hear the story of his love life,

diet, working stresses, strains so we will

curtain with our storybook the foxes,

badgers, beauty flashing by.

Poise

Hey feet!

Two pins!!

What tricks?

Bedrock

the fact

your strong

aplomb

toddles

me on

so long.

Over nine months

from nowhere and nothing,

with my tiny hand I twisted a dial

briskly and it clicked, stopped, turned around

and, imperceptibly, like a pantoum,

gradually drove the pulse of one old base drum

all in motion, deceptively slow

in moment after clicking moment –

until, by autumn, leaves are caught in wind

and days tip forward to December’s end

tumbling, ultimately, nowhere, nothing.

Google

Lit from behind, the keys

on my MacBook spark a room:

simple enough for shadow

in wee black hours – a winter morning.

But what to say of the keys?

A digital schism of light

inviting some sort of story

or mystery from my fingers

leaping for future screens

(black and white like Chaplin)

bridging our banks of time

hoping to light the night

of a future indefinite human

moving their eyes left to right

but looking not so very far

as letters light up on their forehead

projected by backlight shining

and grabbing at irises, brain cells

hurling the past to a future

simply by pushing a key.

Love Sonnet

We journey on as special way,

we got to somewhere, not the end,

there’s still a lot to do and say

as lover and as friend.

Feet will bear us, lead us to

our presence, we will hear and see

as if we know

a great way to be free.

So we go on,

no time to hide,

no cries or moans,

a man and woman side by side.

You’re in my heart and in my mind;

joy before and  joy behind.

On the Afghan trail,

red ants and black ants

face off and then shy away;

busy-ness as usual.

Show

Eight minutes left and the oboe aums

behind conversation, anticipate

flutes and piccolos tinkle, laugh

as the head of a cello dances from the pit,

a snare drum celebrates, chatter boxes chat.

Sky-blue balcony with gilded trim,

tipping water bottles, men in jackets.

Two minutes now and the buzz increases.

Sondheim’s a word in my phone, you bet

and he strains for truth, beginners please.