A poet,

 lost in words, sits on a train’s

deluded rails that seem to converge

like wrinkles on his hands and face

 - before and back - through time and space.

Avoiding headlines

but chasing a hunt

for every letter

 - like sperm - in word - and sound.

Riding rails,

narrow minded,

cliché trip

up a track:

wondering and gazing,

secretly alive

One morning, lost, he

sits exhausted in an airport
hoping for a pretty sky;
hearing words from nations’ update,
jumble into purple sky.

Every word intends connection
- hopeful – casting line and fly.
Once outspoken, lost in motion,
kisses in a pretty sky.

Yes

When the world's abundant

I pick the flower, yes.

When the world’s connected,

I reach for a handshake, yes.

When the world is loving,

I hug the answer yes.

When the world’s deciding,

I bet the answer yes.

When the world is dawning,

look up, the answer’s yes.

When the world is learning,

sorry, the answer’s yes.

When the world is teasing,

yes, the answer’s yes.

Brother

I looked into my brother’s eye
and saw a tree there waving.
I passed beyond a garden gate
and heard a mountain calling.
I walked a long a stony path
and tasted waves a–spraying.
I looked into my brother’s eye
and felt a fire – burning.

Deep beyond the black, black sky,
I looked into my brother’s eyes
and saw myself there waving.

Shakespeare knew

 a word blows into time

with every glittering chance

to heal our headspace, heart, and fly;

lifting humans by the hand,

dancing under Vincent sky

- in one chord and the next.

Traveling Man

 Train’s tracking north,

when he spots barren trees,

feels an ancient pang

- missing a special child.

Even disconnected – like the coldest

winter twigs - he hangs on – and hopes

another summer lifts and melts the ice

on hard converging tracks.

Alone, in time and space,

one glance of hares in spring,

the sound of a child laughing,

could dissolve his eyes

and turn rails - left and right -

– out, away – and back - into a beating heart.

Hot breakfast

 Half forgotten’s only half remembered;

something niggled out beyond awareness

today as we were busy cooking breakfast

and though I stood there frying, looking steadfast,

a monster kept on swimming under Loch Ness;

- so scary I can hardly dare remember.

It’s getting darker early mid-November;

best to watch I do not get too careless,

slip the anger out in all its vastness!

Better hold it in by staying stuck fast.

(Despite the smiling looks, I couldn’t care less)

and I will sure ensure that I remember

to get you back, you bastard, this December,

even though it’s adding to my hair loss

to plot a future payback for this breakfast.

It’s over – you and I will quickly get lost

in swamps and rivers, take another compass

reading out, away, from this old breakfast.

As memory assembles – we’ll remember.