Glimpse ( one of many )

Glimpse. Pic for poem.

 

in space, in time, a caught moment

that locus

between now and sometime later can be playful

yet the gaps lengthen and splice

into the inevitability of unfolding time

that ineluctable luxury and it’s conflation into one’s self

This being the first of the month and by its nature

much like many others I find myself in a fold of history,

with its little bookmarks liable to be set free when shaken

from the spine of ‘my’ book. Its close weave and glue, it’s conformity

posing the question, would you choose freedom if there were a choice?

Would you have the presence of mind whilst you were in free-fall

to attach yourself to something meaningful

to make a pact with a promise and hang there in space

waiting for clarity?

Would you, could you. do you exist in partial time,

a partner in grace?

Well do I?  Will I ever fall to earth…

bad, bad words

bad, bad words. pic

 

I can’t contain my words

they are feral

and when I go out

they let me down

bad cats and dogs and birds

bad, bad words

you know, I once saw a man taking a parrot out for a walk

it perched on his shoulder attentively

looking at him with its sharp beak poised

and I wondered if it ever bit him

for the impertinence of taking  it out unfettered

attached to his shoulder so somehow – owned

the wild bird in its native forest – exotic

would protest,  preferring not to be tame

bad, bad words

they grow into characters, they assume persona’s

I glimpse them as they frolic

I know them as they choke

a gale of consonants and vowels

incipient sounds like weather on the make

puddles of confusion – a mosaic of mistakes

I should have stopped to take a picture of that man

with that parrot on his shoulder so full of withheld

bad, bad words

and now my mouth is full of ammunition for another day

as if

Barbie dolls

 

 

they needed permission to be exuberant

repression and prejudice joyously exposed

flaunts publicly in the face of all that approbrium

and dances in the streets

of a capital city alive – stripped of the nods and winks

the brothers and sisters and in-betweeners

make a riot in plain sight

the anarchy of self evident truths

rituals and history unstitched to reveal

reality made to lurk in the mainstream

a marching band with glitter and horns

tattoos and stencils, face- paint and flamboyance

defiantly, brazenly, a baby suckling at a breast

the  parade polishing itself as it progresses

a serpent in a rainbow that pulses and says

look at me

a flexed, honed torso wearing only a gold posing pouch

and on his head a fan of barbie dolls

next to him a woman – the two of them – an exhibit

a romance in a cameo of the human race

everywhere the promise of a crescendo

and nowhere the commonplace

this then a reflection of everything we can ever hold dear

the many questions and troubled faiths conjoined

as if

Start me up

Start me up. pic

 

 at first light untrammelled by fear

the first thought, that fragile thing

is wary in the unfolding moments

before the day expands

into a precious arc like a fisherman’s net,

cast wide;

and it should always be an optimistic sweep

of eyes not yet occluded by doubt

limbs not yet bothered by gravity

and a heart willing to pump

fresh energy to gather-up

the mornings catch

My amour-plated heart

My amour-plated heart. pic

 

I am curious in a casual way

to enquire within

to knock at the door behind which

failed space and ruins lurk in shrouds

grief looms and guilt skitters not being quite

so apologetic

and if I were to enter in

would I trip and drown in tears spilt of love

lost in the commonwealth of desire sold short

the skirting boards and rough hewn timber prone

to splinter; a sea then, of waste and recrimination

and having entered in

would I seek solace in quiet things like thoughts or prayer

to unberth me from  the quay so that I could float

on principals and occupy untainted  air

to be a visitor, a welcome guest treading on the hearth

and be comfortable contained within the walls

and would I, so ensconced

be able to declare my love unflinchingly

offering up the dregs along with the spoons

and silverware; could I admit to all of it

and  suffer my lips to say- I love you?

Mother

Mother. pic

 

In the garden leaning against an old water tank

that we use to contain the roots of decorative bamboo

leans a wooden cross with a small brass plaque

which marks the fact of my Mother’s passing away

on the 26th of July 2014  “Wally” Much loved by all

It is my own last claim on my mother whose selfless love

was most evident for all the time I can remember

so there it is – like a lighthouse that radiates a soft lament

even as I grow old and speculate

on the dwindling circumference of my life

I feel it’s pulse. Her very own eulogy

and know in time my time will come

and I too may be a legend leaning

in a garden somewhere still thought of

in a beating heart

Pearls

Pearls . pic for poem

 

I want to speak of miracles

enunciate my awe  at modern things

and give thanks on this bright day

that I am present  to behold

the gifts that shower me

day in day out  but

not seem fey, too abstractly thoughtful  or naive

it’s just that looking out of the bedroom window

I see our neighbour basking in the sun

a misshapen homage to beauty  with his beer gut

his paean to gods and mercies

quite evident in the pose

the shrubs, the seedlings and all that nascent growth

almost showing beneath his feet, his hopeful yards long stare

and I am struck by how much we have in common

and not

how we differ, on the edges, in the beds

in matters of colour or politics, his children at private schools

with hopes for higher things

but we are just morsels – innocents in the food-chain

as that Thrush on the lawn teases out a long fat worm

and a Robin inflates his or her breast in warning

the birdsong reverberates with sweet nostalgia

I must soldier on  just one day farther

in the rain

A common neighbour

A common neighbour

 

I would be better served

to play a simple part

and forget any notions that

stretch to gravity, wit or pomp

 

it would also serve me well

to know my place

and reside there in peace

for I have a restless energy

 

and a mind full of buried treasure

all of which renders me

a danger to the gift

that was bestowed

 

when my mother first released me

and I took air

and a place in the world

next to you

DIY

Get a grip.jpg

 

I spend my time engaged

on Home Improvements

it’s tiring work this self absorption

incessant, monotonous and repetitive

and if I’m honest, for all the huff and puff

I’ve botched it

I am not polished or buffed

or what my son would call ‘hench’

I’m grey and lined and display all the hallmarks

that come with age

Will this disappointment  turn eventually to fear?

I am rust on the smooth haft of a padlock

it’s sheen a parody of atomic numbers

that emit pulses – half lives – I’ll take them

let me glow

I just need a minute to be myself

I’ll put down those spanners and that wrench

I’ll be less morbid

I’ll sparkle

just before

I put all the tools away

The inevitability of beauty

The inevitability of beauty

 

wind seething chases its tail

mock fighting in a demonstration

of how futile it is to resist, meanwhile

bamboo bends like a vaulter in pursuit of personal- bests

and the sun is benign, spectating as if this

were all an earthbound diversion

 

nature lends a hand here and there

the magnolia flowering now reminds me of Mum

whose birthday came round eighty nine times in late March

and the wisteria buds fat and tight waiting to erupt

and the daffodils have walked their cocky yellow strides

so now the garden centres are looking forward to bulging tills

 

this truly is the time of sap and surge when

I am quiet, watchful and wanting to be on the manifest

as a passenger going forward; am I willing and primed?

do I have what it takes to qualify for the ticket and can I

just let nature take its course

Of course I can. I must