One day I drew
a picture of myself
- childlike and true -
and put a big circle
round the wee boy
I had craftily created:
a boundary, an area
so mum and dad can’t enter
because they want to change me
from stick man into fat boy
or make me much more handsome
by rubbing out (or hangman).
I used an HB pencil;
it’s a fine line.
In this half-light, the light is changing slow
- another day of feeling minor fear;
time is up, and so it’s time to go
seeking, finding little things to know
and feel, confabulate, perhaps to hear;
in this half light, the light is changing slow.
Forever probing language, me and you,
so I can be not me - if I could dare;
time is up and now it’s time to go.
I’ll spout my words but who can tell me how
meaning climbs a spiral or a stair?
In this half light, the light is changing slow.
One day, there will be nothing left to do
except to take another breath of air
when time is up and getting time to go.
Humility’s a constant – God I know -
the need to bend a knee is lurking near.
In this half-light, the light is changing slow.
Time is up and so it’s time to go.
in time, energy,
void and matter, I’ll
make space for your in-
tent. Through me, fulfill
needs - by action - for
a greater purpose
on this bountiful
earth; learning and for-
giving as I go.
Staying true, we will
create fire and ast-
onishment again
and again. Amen.
The alarm goes off – on the dot –
and a stagger to the shower
fires my skin into a heat-map:
another day and a dollar.
The Northern Line is running well
- I’m told – and wide-eyed travelers sniff
on the way to London Bridge, sigh
when train doors sigh. Monks for prayer,
people assemble here
carrying bread, briefcases, stars
on posters smile and sparkle.
A crowd of muffled dervishes
is falling through time like days:
trusting (this day) fire can kindle rainbows; little hearts.
Knock knock! Who’s there?
Clickety click,
behind a door.
I’m glad
that door is closed
between a pecking sound
and me - for sure
that sound is not for me – knock, knock -
because if I crack open
the little door’s edge, I will surely want to change
whatever’s lurking there
and it might, maybe, turn me
into more of what I am
or whatever I could be.
T’roof leaks
on t’conservatory.
Around and about
puddles on deck
wrecking red carpet
since 1997
and my missus upset
- just by piddling rain!
Tell you wot, I’ll buy a new carpet
with mi silver credit card
and give ‘er happiness
in a mo.
I copped it, yer,
I buy it.a spiritual man (say, a preacher);
his favourite saying went like this,
‘Rocks are hard and water’s wet;
that’s the way it is!’
He’d parade in front of
hundreds of eyeballs, talking love:
I can see him now in photographs,
mouth open, spouting stuff
on rocks and water: fair enough.
Today - I realized that he was partly right –
bending knees, on this and that, I also felt
that water sometimes turns to ice
and even rocks can melt.
