The Gate

When the barrier stays down

a micro phonic voice

stutters ‘I can’t see you on my screen,

what’s the name again?’

There’s no real need to panic

even though panic’s a bodily instinct;

it’s more a need to wonder, be curious

about that continuing need to breathe

and that you really deserve to live

a little longer, to feel butterflies

in the gut and be tickled

for a while, licking lips,

coldly sensing fresh air,

one breath, next step, blinking.

Life

In sea shallows, I slope a toe

and feel that first shock

of electricity

when a little wave arises.

I take a step ahead now,

numb to the shinbone,

anticipating

what to do next. To fight

for consciousness,

flee into apathy,

wait?

Skip ahead and a new wave catches

thighs - bring it on -

and another forward-move

until a boomer whacks my chest

to almost a topple

of torso and water.

I keep walking

beyond mindful tricks

of cold and danger

to go again

another time,

another push

knowing that heart is red and strong

with muscles a-tightening

ready to leap

and be lifted,

surrender

and swim.

You may see your children regularly

I leave you in the evening,

my heart a running beat;

you turn yourself away from me

devising new pursuits

and friendships for the seeking,

a spell to cast by reaching;

my cells are shrieking ‘singleton’,

your stage is somewhere new!

My answer’s in this question

‘Is there anything left to say?’

I shift myself away from you

for days and nights and days:

you’re sailing after treasure,

digging joy and leisure

along a measure and a stretch,

two weeks, away, away!

Step Back

I listen to Bach,

I get into Mozart

and still I’ve no sense of all the power they wield

in rhythm and tone,

vibrating a note

but movable senses of tension I yield.

You may see the children

Every second week I take

my sons back to their mother:

with hugs, a final look,

one warm belly to another.

Sun and moon far west

tip a singing heart

‘Ta-ra my lads, it’s for the best’

turning backs, apart.

Throats move,

Adam’s apples,

eyes of love,

no appeals

blurring sight;

twelve days. Goodnight.

Charon

He plods, and asks, for ‘tickets please’

beneath  this old train roof;

alarms are hanging from the eves

- and passengers are safe.

People turn and smile and look

(outside, a shocking sea)

this train is traveling to a stop

wherever we will be

and, in each carriage, swinging doors

so I could saunter through

and talk or pay, or sleep or play,

or curl in my cocoon?

The driver knows the route we take

but only he can see

our spiral west into the dark

on a ticket for today.

Call

Thank you for holding.

We may never know what’s going on

at the very centre of our Earth

where, four thousand miles straight down,

zooms a point, indivisible, hot.

Thanks for continuing to hold.

At least old Mozart’s a tuneful balm

but, sadly, there’s a potential burst,

a chance of magma time:

to do my best or to do my worst.

Thanks for holding.