he lies sleeping under
the sage green sheet
on his side turned away
from me and my intrusive light

the sheet is gathers about him
like grass upon the mountain range
that peaks at shoulders and hip

at tne bead head, a tangle
of jungle vines curled and intertwined
and the sound of a bear embarking
on a short winters hibernation

at the foot, ten pebbles of varying size
attached to two size eleven boulders
of a sunbrowned material
aged by sun, surf and sand
yet on the underside
a pale pink, reminiscent
of the delicate  inside
of the finest seashell

the grass on the upper reaches
of the moutain range, waves
as the wind sighes in and out
of the bear-cave mouth
and the plains of the lower
shift in small earthquake tremors
before settling in somulant torpor

when my man mountain sleeps ,he sleeps

groper lips speak
vowels fall forth
chipped pearls of wisdom
skitter about the ground
seeking purchase
in mud pockets
finding only dry sand
and bitter salt

******* in salt
for forty years
can do that
curdle the cream
of wisdom leaving
just the sour to spew out

but if clever you can sift
the  detrius and make
cheesecake with
chipped pearls  on top

new faces
eager to learn
wanting to speak
not sure, too sure
waiting for brilliance
to fall upon them like rain
holding the centre of the space
yet small within in it

older faces
casual in welcome
relaxed in attitude
creating a sense of being
larger than they once were
filling the space with  synergies

they all come in  and mingle
the very fresh,
those who are middling
and those who are beginning  
the downhill trek to the end
this is the conduit,
this dark room
that seems dingy
and broken in the day
but at night
when the grid is lit
and the mummers come to play
it is the grotto fantastic,  
filled with other beings
opposite selfs
with faces painted
and multitudinal voices
making all from naught

and I am
the gatekeeper,
paid in coins of laughter
and notes of tragedy
opening vistas
and changing lines...

all the faces
have the one thing
in common
an earnest desire
to stand up and
take the stage

so throw open the gates
let them enter, let them play

again the rain
this time soft gentle
soothing mist,
that makes
trembling pools
of opal
while clouds above
drift and collide
like faded bumpercars
all movement but
little co-ordination

the tuxedo kit sit on windowsill
enamoured of the sliding
drops of condensation,
his head follows
up down then up,
he reminds me of a yo-yo

tommorrow, a new day,
yesterday, history forgiven
now, a a long drink of regret
...... and anticipation

little trout upon my plate
bet your wishing that fly you ate
was not attached to fishing line

little trout in my mouth
like a bird you should've flown south
but now you are destined for my mouth

little trout in my tummy
you are so incredibly yummy


little trout I thank you
for feeding me and my crew