Poetry is the sound

The wind makes

As it circles your soul

And everything is second-hand

All of it spent air

Turned around and around

And we sit here

In the commonplace

Rinsing the air

And rubbing the threads

Of patterns worn down

Abraded by familiarity

Yet still we come

To gather round in spell-bound hope

Ready as ever to witness

To be in thrall

To absolutes

And know that we can find

In everything

A little of the new

A night at the theatre

A night at the theatre.jpg

I  veered through narrow streets

At night in Piccadilly and Soho

In ramshackle pursuit of a sea captain

While under my arm I struggled to carry,

a mattress

And all the time I knew it was absurd

But I kept up a dialogue with him

Remonstrating against him and his crew

How he had parked his ship

Too close to my car

And blocked me in

Awake. I am left with the residue

Of confusion

Amazed at what goes on inside my head

When the day shift goes off to play

And all manner of characters move in

To the theatre of my invention

Bristling with malevolent energy

To prick my pride

And expose my fragile hold on reality

The first

The first.jpg

How apt to start the month,

with a Monday

Now we’ll expect symmetry to unfold

Like logic. As it should

And all the curly wurly thoughts

False starts and chaos of the past

Be tamed. Brought into line

Oh, how kind, to start like this

To give us all a break

This democracy of chance

Whence one, the first, could be the last

Figures rolling, resolving to be

Significant in patterns that repeat

The life cycle. But neatly

And if all the lights go out

Then what, my number fetishists

Are we cast into a darkness

Of tumbling die

Where confusion will drown clarity

And logic leak from the cracks

Of pursed lips that crave conformity

New days. New dawns

They are not cheap

Entrusted as they are

With all we most want to keep

Perhaps we should be

Blind to numbers that conform

To patterns that unfold in sleep