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

one bright moment of hope

one bright moment of hope. pic

 

each horizon, each moment spent

a salt water kiss, another spasm riding

into the next and this fraction is all of me

my orange cup, the bubbles on the meniscus

of cooling tea

a plane droning overhead

vacuuming the air for the dust

of our ordinary lives and leaving

grounded specks and motes, dazzling

in air shot through with brilliant light as if

our dreams could be kept in quarantine

then released again in another place

refreshed from tedium and ushered into a stalled excitement

that would last, for once

before the signature of loss was dry

mayday. mayday

mayday. pic for poem

 

snow is falling with stalled gravity

ponderous in white

a gift we’re told, from Russia

whose flakes stutter in our shocked air

inscrutable as they land

whispering in thick accents

and huddling in a carpet of nonchalant threats

on our lawns whose thoughts

have already turned to spring

as shocked daffodils blanch at the intrusion

dog walkers assemble to dissemble

that the biggest ‘dump’ will be on Thursday

and so we all return to base

 and wait

for everything we ever said

to come true

Always

Always. pic for poem

All visions are, as dreams

elided by the sting

of disappointment

They find horizons hemmed by lesser men

who languish at the frontiers

of all I ever wished for

so,

I glimpse perimeters

always

and know that I am contained

within this spirit world

of bloodsurge and ego

peeping at the possibilities

that sustain hope yet

always

a constraining hand will

by its’ magic

clench and keep me shy

of all that light

That Promised Land

always

patient

Patient

like an atom adrift

in this vast body of parts

failing somehow

and all gathered because

one clock was an hour behind

another advanced by the same amount

‘nil by mouth’

time becomes obstinate

a mocking chant

not that of monks

no abeyance to humility

because the institution grinds away

at those within

with a remorseless appetite

habitually uncouth

and promising, always promising

an outcome. A deliverance.