Rain in my Brain

Rain

plummets

and spatters

consistently

the top of our tent.

North wind pushes

wavering walls,

rumbling,

and then

stops.

Camping

Morning mayhem. The tent’s buffeting

like a mountain lion. Truer than words, it rumbles.  And up

in the sky a huge grey brushstroke stands with light behind.

Today has begun.

Andrew’s asleep and dreaming, snoring,

but smiling. He stirs; begins to dream awake another few hours,

reaching for essences dancing with clay.

Hungry for magic, a boy.

RAGE

Page 1

I need a flashy headline – like RAGE!

Pictures of some naked breasts, a star

a girl, a funny caption, someone brave.

Need a colour scheme to catch the eye.

Centre

Page two is everything – a little story -

then my adverts – don’t be shy –

in a war of glances I need you!

Here you’ll find excitement – no thing too!

Page 3

Now you’re screwed and hammered-in to gaze;

caught within the noose of every thing

but if you want to feel the air and fly

wild and free and laughing, get RAGE.

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.