Life

Coffee, black as a final No

vibrant potential cries out – go!

Milk, mysterious as falling snow,

tipped and turning, says – hello!

Up to my mouth, a steaming brew;

lippy little liquid  - suck, suck, thank you!

Turning away, I look at the sky;

old kitchen table, doorway, goodbye!

Lively as a hare, I plant three trees:

omelet, a little plate, yes, yes, please.

Terrible, the pathway from kitchen to lake;

fall down a pothole, my mistake!

Down on my knees, I clean up the mess,

cross another river with a great big Yes!

Rabbit, Rabbit

on ears and lips, tongues.

I’m way-word-weary today,

longing for real language

lilting a runabout between all the dots,

making my way through soft, soggy rain.

The undomesticated have no words.

The butterfly’s page is the wild, wild world

lilting a runabout between all the dots.

I walk, leaving footprints, a muddy trail.

Language, not words.

Mind

I went for a wander to listen

out for natural song;

sheep with their backs to the wind,

a worm on its way to the west,

a horse who stands and, staring,

no longer feels for saddle,

or bit, or foot in a stirrup.

Still as a toad,

I’m aching for

my bubble brain

to stop all words.

Stop

the world.

Dreamer

When daylight hits the dreamer’s face,

kaleidoscope’s fading and mingling.

He does not wake.

When darkness hits the dreamer’s face;

deep into longing he enters

his lonely truth.

When music hits the dreamer’s face

and sings in accord with heartbeat,

he dances

up into sunlight (stronger than puppets)

hungry for mischief today.

Today

Waking is a hard attempt to grace a dream,

free from hazy traveling

and, out from the blue-gray sky of morning,

Andrew shouts. (Far away like a lark)

- fibres of sound grab my ears,

swing my flickering eyes. He’s outside,

been for an adventure, saying hello,

holds his hands out to the world.

Good Morning!

                                    I’m tired

and tempted to stay underground,

ignore that green shout

and his trembling cry of intensity.

But I do decide to move up - in one choice moment -

and spread my arms away from dreaming.

He trumpets

a few notes :

dreamscape, magic waking.

Andrew

He simply wants your spirit

as he fumbles for the key,

with a little song that turns a smile

(he stalks you by degree);

attacks your arrogant nature

with questions in a blow

‘are you Jesus, happy, married?;

‘why not?’ he’ll want to know!

He wants your neck to straighten,

to stop you being ‘cool’

with a smile wrapped round a thunderbolt

- he wants to touch your soul;

there’s magic in a reach of hands;

and then the hugging – love –

Count a birth

Once I was foolish enough

to direct magic at the

threshold of a simple fate.

Fortune swam a mother’s womb

(vivacity of random order)

sex’s creativity.

Heavenly lightning bolted

- heat and helix were guided

nonplussed by crazy harmony

- then a single cry was born.