Forget the cosy tale
its 3 in the morning
your a street artist,
no lines, no direction

only you, and the crowd
scary huh!

not everyone walks
the stage, so make
a scene and craft
slick approval

the adrenaline
brush fluffs up dizziness
coping on your feet
take a bow, listen
applause.

they look into each others eyes and
roots sink deep in the after-glow
in the blink of an eye

waggons roll in front of you
and whoes to say it doesnt have its
place

you’ve seen them the strange ones
who in the bilnk of an eye
are open to all those
found in crammed places

there also waggons roll but outwards
to open windows.

Steppin on the beach of nana’s shed floor
was like reaching land just off the lawn.
behind unkempt borders edged a
ribbon of flowers as a flush of memories
drifted.

A muffled whisper washed sepia toned moods,
twisted broken things seemed to talk
dummy like quitely in their boxes, rejected by
flighty owners now themselves discarded.

On the windowsill a porcelain cup caught
my eye – watermark of grime told me
where tea once floated. Nana leant
over in crisp white linen while old
China rested on the ledge.  

Lost without its handle useless article –
banished from the cabinet. Where a
scrolled  handle sprung there was
now a clean break, tossed up here
relieved yet wrecked.

A lifetime ago tea was served for
the up and coming set nana with
fixed ideas of dainty cakes swept
away drips on my face.

A pinhole camera lets light fall on paper
at the back of the box, in reverse a similar
pulse occurs on internet sites. And as many
bits as in a spectrum of light.

The sensitive paper lines up a
collection of dots just as the range of
sites disperses a plethera of spots.

The cameras yawning slow and stable
effect contrasts with the internets jaw
dropping speeds. A whiplash of light and
off it zips. Sites seem to breed serving all
sorts of needs.

Professional bodies, purveyors of
knowledge, business and commercial
concerns of all manner of goods are
seldom discerned from so many.

A public outcry at the sprawling mess
and secret agendas regarding fetchers,
letchers and abusers hiding in rather
dark corners rushes a plea to regulate.

If only it were those hidden from sight
who have bad intentions, but others
are rumoured to operate at a higher
dimension.

A high pitched screech results in a critical
eye calming the discontent. Ushering in
a series of constraints. Still the fallout
persists and so we go zipping along.    

The sites that deal in personal things continue
on. You can spill the contents of your day and
friends keep coming fascinated by what
you say. It lightens the load to feel tense and
then spent.
.
And then there are those that let us
escape from work or domestic roles
to find others equally moved. Us souls
aim to improve, so reshape our lives.

Raise technical skills, welcome slaps on
the back for major or minor adjustments.
That piano of light keeps us tapping the
keys to find our flare that will light up the night.

Some its said have an aversion to domestic
chores. Its effect rubs away relationships,
after cleaning, slumpt in a heap I am good
for nothing.

Magazines try to advise befriending
the routine. Check in when you begin, allow
the mind to wander and reflect.

Those uneasy decions years since -
let them go. Remember it’s not
a quake. Afterall it’s only an

after shock so there shoud be
no ill effects. This bouncing around
itches my bleached flesh

on my arm pock marks glisten like a
gritty saucepan bottom. Standing at
the sink, dripping from scuttling

memories of happy events. Lassoed
by the cleaner cable I feel the rushing tug
of dust up the pipe. It wasn’t your fault a voice

shouts loud, as I watch sparrows on
the fence, whistling, at wasting energy,
complaining about moments passed.

On the radio the jingle, jangle of
Mr Tambourine Man speaks of dreams
waiting between crisp cotton.

Oh how I hate strategic
chatter it avoids reaching
deep down inside
and pulling out
your guts like a french horn

At night signs beside the road guide us home.
A backward glance in the mirror lists the household
chores to do.

On the open road a rush of wind and
rubbed out stain seem like the remains of
a speeding car.  

Please save us from this fate. Recalls moments
stood with a music stand and violin. Joined as
one mind and body vibrating air high
treble clef. Cats eyes receive us

and keep away men in long black coats.
Although this is a local run they are
always adding roads, so you could easily
take the wrong turning.

And find yourself lost.

Sunset lit crystal blue sky softens evening
sights, easing heat swirls along deep dug
channels and birdsong drifts,

a stretch of coiled black tarmac
runs beneath not visceral pitch as
dusk approaches granular strip
edges the road,

and a beetle black crawls along, oval
shaped, creased down its back hawling,
legs like a rowing eight seeming to
dip into the strip,

as I look down there is no sense in this
movement, no goal, no refreshment, but
carrying on whatever into the night.

Stretching my kneck upwards a jet ebony
black woman walks along wreathed by mountains,
Sierra Nevada perched on her head a rare
sight in these parts,

far off coal black hills sprout a tatty covering of
green flecked tweed, ribbons of meltwater
rush down to where I stand spring still
flushing,

in the fast approaching twilight seems like
a sleeved arm lyeing on the land a tanned
knuckle of dried rock stretches out - wrinkled,
sunburnt calluses around.

All creatures share this abundance
turned from semi-desert into an oasis
by Iago and his Moores.

The stars are out tonight bronzed in the cold clear sky
there’s the ox tugging at the plough stuck stiff
a sleight of hand each dot still
from a spinning top

seems as if the north star wanders
round and round in a routine motion
are we the only bridge twixt
stubborn resolve and fluid revolution

a deep red flicker in the hedgerow
catches an advent door opening out
from midwinter - a hare arks and darts
to the wood

ears set back streamlined  
silhouette of dwarf penny
farthing rushing-on

majestic in moonlight

Stepping out of his fathers shadow a bewildered
lad of eighteen was rooted in the centre of a
banking hall room. Clipboard in hand he waited
to be told what not to do.

Custom was slow in this suburban branch, at
midday his nerves relaxed and by mid-afternoon
his demeanour - more distinct. Words flew, what a
charming young man.

At the breakfast table mum didn't mention this,
taken with fussing about the suit. His shock of
red hair an emblem of youth. She remembered
the day his bike had the balance wheels put away.

Family were confident his ability should
convey talents his teacher said he had.
Perhaps this change involved a laying on of
hands - everyone chorused he was blessed!

Dad embarrassed him praising potential and
good luck. All to be heard before his son, who
just wished his father would stop talking of a
boy hardly anyone knew.

Returning home, alone in his room, the ceiling
spun as anger whisked tastes of fear. As the
anxiety settled, he knew how to deal with
anger, fear, shame.

Once, his dad seemed so tall.
The balloon of confidence had risen again.

Drips land on the window sliding
down a raggedy path, splotching an uneven
trail. Undulating smears on the glass from
drying distended drops.

There’s Mrs Wilson heading
to the shops, passing old Mrs Jacobs
bent, yet in a hurry. Each pinned beneath black
umbrellas angled to the wind. Skinny frames wrapped
in spinach like old coats. Cold poker legs move
robotically on. Unaware of our malignant
disease.

Falling heavily – splash, splatter,
halts and moves again edging towards
the finish line of each extended spoke. Like me,
each nears the cliff drop.

Shortly there’ll be a puddle this side
of the sill. You have to accept the storm
is lost  and these frames lie ditched in paint,
the acrylic **** wall breach.

People say it’s a journey that old men make
tracking back to when we just reached windows
kneeling. Then moisture evaporated
waved farewell left a lace like pattern.

Now we stand distanced from the glass
reflecting on what was lost back then as
we smell that stench of wet rot. Water has
seeped beneath the frame while I’ve
been standing here misty eyed.

Again, that almost magnetic grip loosens
as the window tilts in the wind and bumps
me into touch. Crumpled I look up to the stained glass
wondering.