Connected

I have two sons;
two hands, two feet,
engaged in driving
of my car
and, when the starter motor jammed,
I used each hand and foot
- and teenage boy – for hard pushing;
crunching a little bump-start.

The engine fired and a few of us
had cranked a change, a difference,
but, later, when that car was canned,
my sons grew quiet and sad
(we drove it thirteen years)
and now we gaze alone, askance,
standing near a box-cart, shaking hands,
nostalgic, aching, flattened; true at last.

Jung said

sometimes my shadow

is wide and tall, sometimes small;

other times not there.

Random Stopping

It can be dangerous when the car in front

randomly stops – or comical when a teenager

- walking up the stairs – stops dead

in tracks because a bleeping text came in

and you say ‘Sorry’ as you crash her rucksack.

It’s weird, because a voice inside desires

that we ‘Keep trucking! Keep on keeping on!’

resists an awkward, random stop.

This energy’s the kind that Bannister

used in his first four minute mile – the kind

that every lover sometimes needs to find.

Random stopping never seems a good idea

- ever – definitely not on an escalator

or motorway and Philip Larkin

bluntly knew how many things we talk

about just never happen. He also said that

this one will.

An Angel

is defined in my little on-line

dictionary as a heavenly

being, guide or guardian; more

than google, a glossy magazine,

radio or TV blinking

and ‘omen’ as a prophetic sign

or signal from the Mystery,

Beloved, God or Allah.

Of course, the ancient days are gone

when we believed in angel-notes from

Mother Nature - such as shapes

in leaves or whether birds appear

to fly, uplift and honk along together.

Today I almost saw a kingfisher

catching silver from water in a

river flowing back to where I

came from. Time passes, turns;

of course those days are gone.

Today, for the Down’s boy.

knowing that, sometime soon, you’ll both need to exit a closed door

and, outside, are hoodlums, thugs, dogs and loud bangs;

the best idea is to sit still (mum) and hope.

Andrew is humming a song from ‘Joseph’, looking around

at the TV unplugged and the Macbook (out of battery by now).

After a while, the crashes return and men bark even louder.

Andrew jumps - and shouts – you quieten him,

rising your terror from belly to throat, quivering fingers;

but he keeps rocking and singing, looking around, crooning gently

‘I closed my eyes – drew back the curtain.’ Melodic, softly,

until one big crash on the door becomes immediate ‘I closed my eyes…’

Andrew smiles, goes to the door-handle, turns it slowly.

Paradigm minds

(tough as table

tops) rise until

old corners melt

but every time

they thinks they ‘know’

- edges appear –

desperation,

hold on tight!

Hard-thought-bubbles

protect themselves

from sharper words,

blades or bludgeons

desperate to

keep the same old

boring surface,

inner structures.

Thought-viruses

(precise in a

small jelly-brain)

will finally soft-

-en by ageless

power; blood-red from

our pumping bellies,

adam’s apples, heartbeats.

Rough Mystery

Van Gogh 'God took a terrible lot of trouble with this world study of his' 

Van Gogh says the whole world’s a painting study;

with form and colour, pencil dust

roughly pushed by fingers into arcs

on paper, shining, planned, unplanned.

Stepping back,

loving the action of it,

(and all the time it took)

I bet it feels good to taste

and smell and see

all the nascent parts

emerge and, listening, be.