Inca’s, temples and ruins

Inca's, temples and ruins. pic

 

the sun sweats it’s golden harvest

showering gifts and glistening just as

the ancients worshiped with their beliefs

shaped by pearls that were tears of the moon

come down like mercury to measure and reward  faith

 gods and idols worked so hard to stretch out into space

yet for all they knew the earth was flat

and now

we do the same but we have invented a vacuum

a spinning-top

moving fast and making danger commonplace

so now we face a holocaust in which

all that knowledge may go to waste

and all the dreams go dark

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

cold cuts

Colc cuts. pic

 

you vet my bile                                                       you see it coming

                                                                                because you are guilty

 

with taut phrases

learnt by rote and experience                                  you gloat and preen

                                                                                 with no false modesty

to put me down and deny

me of coherence

of a challenge                                                           in my naivety

 

Unfairly

you squirt corrosive phlegm

and here I am now, years hence

still smarting

still wiping with passionate indifference

at the hurt on my face

 

and those around me live

in their scar-tissue

and would intrude if they could

upon my own but I have made myself immune

as damaged DNA in an unravelling helix                 I never loved you

                                                                                   your last words

and of course I live on

with echoes and pain                                                 you win.

Take this morning

Take this morning.pic

 

A crow, darkly black, sits

on the red, rigid beam

of a child’s playground ride

 

A herald to rise

on a spell

mixing colour in the air

 

Sleek form glimpsed in a dazzle of blue

from the sheen on those wings

stealing away

 

Leaving static the surrendered plaything

for a mother to push

later in the day

Make my day

Make my day. pic

 

you’re going to see sense

going to break

like a favourite flavour

on your face

you’re going to crease

and show some teeth

that serious side you’ve got

on display

has been there for years man

you’ve got dust

filling the cracks

and eye’s man, they’re tired

get some shine

on that fascia

make it easy for me man

SMILE

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