TEETHING TROUBLE

Armed to the teeth
with

teeth
(all newly acquired)

you delight
in biting me

leaving little
indented marks

like moons
that glow on my arms.

“Don’t let her bite you like that! ”

Her mother scolds
both her & me.

I laugh.

“Let her practice! ”

My flesh willing to be
bitten

to ease her
teething troubles.

she looks up
at me

(all chortles and drool)

takes another
nip of me

“Naw...naw...naw! ”
gnawing at my flesh

smiling up at me
with all her little teeth.

I kiss her
on the top of her

adorable
head

adorned with
a classic kiss curl.

“Da...da...da! ”
she thanks me.

We had the best table
at the very edge of creation.

Our waiter
( the Devil you know )

looking so
debonaire  and almost human

rattling off
an expensive menu.

Embarrassingly I had to have it translated into Mortal.

The Devil's faux
supernatural accent

really grated
and I could detect

a slight Aberystwyth
tone.

"Now, this night
of nights

we are serving
a very rare Kraken

fried in a rich
imagination.

Or a superb Leviathan
basted in  delicious mythological sauce.

I'm afraid the slightly sautéed  souls are off.

And to drink
we have the finest minds

( from all time )

our cellars are the envy
of the Imaginary.

Or may I be so bold as to suggest
the latest universe?

Or a sparkling non-alcoholic
sub-conscious.

And for starters?
Some screams perhaps?"

God burps:
"I pray thee, pardon!"

I apologised
said I had already eaten

in a previous life
and that I was

anyway
a dreamatarian.

But if I could
have a glass of H2O?

I listened to the table talk
understanding very little

I didn't speak
fluent Creationese.

I politely made my excuses
and left

...before the after dinner
speeches.

HIS WOODEN LEG STARES AT ME

Grandfather Gordon
always scratching his wooden leg
insists 'It itches! '

always a different explanation
how he lost the leg
enough to fill a book

Grandfather Gordon
scratching the air
where his leg should be

Grandfather Gordon's
wooden leg now
a tommy gun...a sword...a unicorn's horn

'Give me me leg...
...ya daft wee buggers! '
begging for his leg back

Grandfather Gordon's gone
his wooden leg lives on
dusty in a corner

I stroke his leg
remembering him
it itches in my heart

The scarecrow
balances a moon
upon a red mittened hand

a mouse
looks out
of his left eye

the scarecrow
shivers
with the change of weather

I see he still wears
my old coat
it suits him better

in the inside pocket
an old Metro ticket
an unfinished poem

the words indecipherable now
looking like a scarecrow
wrote them

in my dreams
the scarecrow takes the train
finishes the poem

his ending
better than
mind

I toss the moon
from one red mittened hand
to the other

a mouse looks out
my left eye
I wonder how the scarecrow's doing?

I shiver
with delight
it's gonna be a long night

IS THAT IT?

Time runs out
warps into itself

strata after strata
diminishing into

a dot before me
that I vanish into

Future-Past- the Now
all one and the same.

So this is what
Death is?

I'm not
impressed.

The silence
solidifies.

Memory contrives
to put the world back

together like a cut-out
Dada collage.

A postcard blue sky
hastily assembled

against some remembered
building famous for something

or other and
a photo of you

ripped out of an I don't know
stuck in place

glue seeping around edges
like a white blood.

Life is an Hannah Höch
photomontage.

Time congeals
like a fried egg

with a ciggie
stuck in its yoke.

I laugh at memory's vain attempts
"Don't bother!" I tell it

in a voice like the white space
between written words.

The world swirls anti-
clockwise down

the plug hole
of reality.

If this is Death
as I say

I'm not
impressed.

MORE SCARECROWS THAN YOU COULD SHAKE A STICK AT

a scatter of scarecrows
having a chat outside the door
in the cabbage patch

I'd never seen more
than one at a time
seven stunned the senses

gentlemen scarecrows
lady scarecrows
discussing "...whether the weather'll 'old!"

a crowd of scarecrows
catching up on
what's new...what's not

scarecrows sitting silently
in the back of the green lorry
lost in thought

we deposit all our scarecrows
each to their own fields
let them get on with their work


*


They were all scattered about the place...some lying on the ground senseless to the world....others propped up against a wail as if they had imbibed whatever it is that scarecrows imbibe. There was a distinct whiff of hops and barely off of them and they all had silly grins on their faces.
One gentleman scarecrow was actually lying on top of a lady scarecrow( I know I know not very gentlemanly )and both of them smiling their faces off.

Because of this scattering of their persons I decided that the collective noun for them( I know not what it is?)would be a scatter of scarecrows. But you may be more up on the ways and naming of scarecrows and so may be able to render a solution as to what we may call them when a group of them are gathered together...thus. It was a French field and the farmer was the maker of scarecrows for the other farmers. They all wore distinguished clothing and no two were alike and all had personalities of their own.

So maybe it should be a French word that binds them together?
...une dispersion des épouvantails...
...un embrayage d'épouvantails...
....un lambeau d'épouvantails...

Despite this when I demanded that they talk( and as their poet representative on this earth )I had them talk in a West Country accent.
Maybe they were English scarecrows on a busman's holiday so to speak!

WATCHING TV WITH DAD

He is cradling baby
in his arms.

We -  like iron filings
cling to his Dad-ness.

Rival siblings
cuddle into every side

of him
available.

Two more little ones
clutch a leg each

unwilling to
let go

their prize positions.

I am curled on the back
of the sofa

about his neck
like a human scarf or

a rather large cat!

We are laughing at
MR. ED - THE TALKING HORSE.

"... a horse is a horse is a horse of course. . ."
we all chant in unison.

Or sing the theme to
GREEN ACRES.

Doesn't matter what we
watch as long as  we

can be
part of him.

"...our dad is our dad is our dad
of course..!"

I remember your father
kicking in my womb.

The sunshine
fell on the floor

as if it were
worshiping me.

I felt just like I was
the ****** Mary or something

being told what was what

in some Renaissance
painting by some guy whose

name I can’t even
pronounce.

“Woah there...little one! ”
I said chuckling to the kicking.

“There’s still time enough...less of the rough stuff! ”
I tried to coax it into quietness.

“Don’t be in such...a hurry...I’ll still be here! ”
I smiled to it and myself.

Then I had breakfast of coffee
& scrambled egg & chives
with a little dill & paprika sprinkled on top.

Went on making baby
for all I was worth.

The paprika would explain
the red hair!

God...when it came...it was
a difficult birth.

Felt like a peach...split apart.

Beethoven came into the room
from some passing car radio

& then floated out again
as if he were gliding around
on his own notes.

I tried to follow
where the music was going

but it got entangled
in next door’s clothes line.

A pigeon walked up & down
the window sill

trying to look as if he was
very busy but he was only

passing time
&...poo!

“Shoo! ” I scolded it
and then wondered


what a pigeon would look like
in a *****.

Need a lot of changing!

I took a stray feather
from a pillow

balanced it on
my swollen belly

(God I was...huge!)    

& laughed
as it got kicked off.

“That’s my girl! ”
I grinned

‘cos I was
sure I was

having a girl

but instead
I was

having your father.

Always never knew where I was
with him.

He was always his own
person

even when he hardly even
existed.

Then when he handed me you
& I realised my baby’s had a baby

I just cried
& cried

...’till I
laughed.

THE SCENT OF LAUGHTER

Their laughter gathers them
together

forehead to forehead
as if one being

the world seen
from the one mind.

Their laughter entangled
in the scent of roses

that rises now
from a past long since

gone
like a half forgotten fairy tale

the scent still present
to his remembrance

as if that then
was still now.

What are they laughing at...?

He fails to remember

only their nearness
the scent of roses.

BRUSHSTROKES

Her voice
caresses him in Japanese

the syllables
of his name

enacted out
by the brushstrokes

of her
voice

as if she drew him
in mid-air

and he
hung there

alive in the calligraphy
of her

love.

SETTING FIRE TO THE FLAMES

In the candle flame
she sees everything

that cannot be...

...yet needs to be

- spoken.

Music touches her mind
kindly asking if it can help?

The blank page
is amazed

at what it finds
written upon itself.

The music ceases.

The candle is blown out.

Words exist
that long for a mouth

...to speak them.

In the sleeping lady's mind

the candle still

burns

dreaming its own reality.

*** & RED BULL

Out of our skull
on *** & Red Bull

we play football
with a grinning

plastic skull
(retrieved from a skip)  

using the Momento Mori
for a drunken kickabout.

You dribble
& drool it.

You shoot
I save it

tipping it over
an imaginary crossbar.


Spectacular!

I bathe
in an imaginary roar.

I clutch
the skull

to my chest
begin to spout:

'Toby
(or not)  
Toby

... that is the jug! '

'Oi...! ' you shout
'Me Lord Hamlet

...over here
on de head! '

I dropp kick
the skull

(grinning still)  

in your general
direction.

I can see
two of you

& don't know who
to pass it too.

You rise
beautifully to

the occasion
losing a stiletto
in the process

your body arched
like a sublime salmon

jumping
upstream

you head the skull home
past my groping outstretched fingertips

'GOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLGOALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL! '
you scream

your blouse
over your head

in exultant
celebration.

A 'Now then...now then' police man
confiscates our skull.

Tells us
to ****** off.


'Awwww Ref! '
we argue but

he ain't
having any of it.

Hanging on
to each other

you ululating.

We stagger
down the street

look back
to see

P.C. Plod

mis-kick the skull
through someone's sleeping

window
crashtinkletinkle.

We wonder if
he'll have to

arrest
himself.

We scarper
in case he tries

to blame it
on innocent us.

CARELESS LOVE SEQUENCE

* * * 1

HE CAN DO HIS OWN ****** IRONING

She sits feet up
(at last)

with a strong cup of tea
(the way she likes it)

he and his weak tea
( pisswater she’d call it )

she’s ignoring him
because he’s ignoring her

(he can’t say she didn’t
call him)

she’ll be annoyed if
he’s forgotten to bring

her washing in
now it’s raining

(he can do his own ****** ironing)

always tinkering with something
in that old shed of his

(just like his father)

probably never even saw
the sunset she wanted him to see

how many times
did she have to call him

always a puncture to be repaired
or a neighbour’s radio

that needed to be
mended

“Give it to Jim...”
people’d say
“...he’ll fix it! ”

as if he were an old adage
or proverb or whatchmacallit

too vain to wear
his glasses

his eyes almost closed
her laughing at him…watching him struggle

half way
through the ads

she falls asleep
mouth open snoring.

Jim only looks like
he’s sleeping

a neighbour’s dog
finding him

in the early hours of
the morning

his hackles
rising.

* * 2

YOUR NAME UPON MY LIPS…YOUR NAME UPON MY LIPS.

The heart attack
a moon

pierced
by the silhouette of the hill

pain a wolf
howling your name

as each heartbeat
a naked fleeting footstep

running through wet grass
frantic to reach

the lovely lady who laughs

at the stupidness of
your question:

“My name is Death
...why do you ask? ”

Your own name
in a slightly foreign accent
lingers about her lips

vanishes
in a kiss.

* * 3

HE GOT THE OLD GRAMOPHONE TO WORK AFTER ALL

The heart attack
carelessly yawns

unimpressed with
the beautiful sunset

an automatic sprinkler
watering the lawn

the grass wet against his face
as he clutches the earth

trying to hang on

as if the Laws of Gravity
have been reversed

the tic-tic-tic
of the automatic system

lost every now & then
in a dog’s bark

water droplets
staining his skin

like washing on a line
that somebody’s forgotten

to bring in
out of the rain

blue and yellow pegs
lie scattered on the ground

a favourite blouse
that horrid lurid Mexican shirt

run around
together

before deciding to elope
with the breeze

an old fashioned
gramophone

playing: “Careless love
...oh careless love! ”

the glisten of the shellac

the music stuck
in a groove

repeats itself
repeats itself

until it
winds down

his wife’s voice
searching for him

room by room

“Oh, where’s that man
when you want him? ”

“Jim...Jim! ”

her voice echoing
at the end of Summer

a skein of birds
moving as one

wheel across the sky
first one way and then the other

taking her breath away

Jim’s favourite programme
is about to come on

the night listens
to her calling him.

A BIRD SOMEWHERE SINGS

He smiled.
Death smiled too.

Took a tiny sip of water.
As did Death.

Death now
mimicking his every movement.

Shadowing him.
Becoming him.

....in time.

Death stared
out of the mirror.

But the man didn't
recognise

that this was
his death.

He had only 2 minutes
left to live.

The man went on doing
some insignificant

ordinary things.

D.I.Y.
finally getting around to it.

Death copying the least
gesture

like a comedy duo
in a vaudville act.

Each little tic
exact.

Like Groucho.
Like Harpo.

Death lying on the floor.
Adopting the same posture.

Arms flung out.
Eyes staring up

...into the nothing.

The radio keeps on
talking.

The phone
rings.

A bird
somewhere sings.

SCHRODINGER'S DOG

Unlike
Schrödinger's cat

Schrödinger's dog

was always
there

under his feet

hungry for
...his Master's voice...a pat...the sound of his step...

The cat
(like anybody's cat)

couldn't give
a toss

(but that was neither
here nor there) .

It's hard to tell

if it's alive or if
it ain't.

It's one
lazzzzzzy cat.

He's never there
(when you want him to be)

and always there
(when you don't want him to be.)

Quark the cat
was just one big paradox.

The dog
was old and faithful

always
in the box

asleep or gnawing
a bone in thought.

The cat couldn't care
less

a source
of constant

anxiety

about its
whereabouts

and the state
of its health.

Being
neither

here nor
there

or somewhere
else entirely

as if it lived
in a parallel universe.

Lived in a world
of its own.

Thus the theory of
Schrödinger's Cat

proved
(beyond doubt)

that although
cats are nice an' all dat

dogs
are a scientist's

best friend.

*

In 1935, Schrödinger published an essay describing the conceptual problems in quantum mechanics. A brief paragraph in this essay described the cat paradox:

One can even set up quite ridiculous cases. A cat is penned up in a steel chamber, along with the following diabolical device (which must be secured against direct interference by the cat) : in a Geiger counter there is a tiny bit of radioactive substance, so small that perhaps in the course of one hour one of the atoms decays, but also, with equal probability, perhaps none; if it happens, the counter tube discharges and through a relay releases a hammer which shatters a small flask of hydrocyanic acid. If one has left this entire system to itself for an hour, one would say that the cat still lives if meanwhile no atom has decayed. The first atomic decay would have poisoned it. The Psi function for the entire system would express this by having in it the living and the dead cat (pardon the expression) mixed or smeared out in equal parts.[

*

There was a leak in my cistern in the brain stem. I didn't like to play dice with my universe so I called a quantum mechanic in. I asked him if it was bad. He said: Well, it is or it isn't...depending on how you look at it.. It's good for me...bad for you! '

'Now, about that cat? '

'Not that old chestnut....the cat is over 70 now...just fix the cistern will ya! I had the cat poisoned...so that's that! '

'Ohhhhh! '

'Anyway...it was a hypothetical cat! '

'Ya mean it wasn't real? '

'Oh...what is real?

He seemed considerably saddened by this and left without charging for the cistern.
I hate when after all this time Animal Rights activists disguise themselves plumbers in order to rescue the ****** cat that is neither alive or dead.

Next time it leaks...I'll call a vet.

BEAUTY O'ERSNOW'D AND BARENESS EVERY WHERE

A Christmas
with the Thames

almost freezing, then
thawing & then again

the London of 1598
asleep

under a quietness
of snow

that hides the world
from itself

as some Elizabetheans
go to steal

a theatre
silent now for a brace of years

frozen by bitter
dispute.

The playhouse dismantled
bit by bit

so that when it rises
it will become in time

The Globe
this wooden O.

Will turns his face
up to the stars

laughs
at this theatre theft

snowflakes settling
upon his eyelids

remembering when
he was all of 7

and the Christian tales
told in stained glass

are shattered
for their sins

now only white light
is to be

let in

picking up a shard
of the ****** Mary

here a fragment of
St. George.

He sticks out his tongue
tastes the snow

knows that
all things change to

begin again.

He laughs.

The ****** Mary's smile
still clasped in his hand.

CRÚISCÍN...CÍSTÍN BAISE
(LITTLE JUG...LITTLE PALM CAKE*)

Auntie Mary’s
currant cake & blackberry jam

“Mmmmmmmm”

The jewels in the crown
of our forever summer

holiday

precious Corkonian objects
brought back to the lowly lowlands of the Curragh.

All the blackberries
that ever were

bursting with sunshine
& childhood

jumping into the jar for her
as if it were an honour.

They & I
transformed by her

love
& lovely laughter

cake baked
with smiles & chuckles

winks & singings.

Me on her knee...tiny
being kissed to bits.

Me being devoured
by an enormous hug

smothered in bosoms
the many many yellow flowers on her purple pinny.

Her blowing my curls out of the way
so that her smile could kiss me

more & more...er!

Me unable to comprehend anything
of her Cork accent.

Me saying “Yes..? ” & “No..? ”
in all the wrong hilarious places

(to my great embarrassment
& her great amusement)

her breath tickling my cheek
telling me she loved me...loved me...

& that I looked so good

she could “...ate ya! ”

Love as visible
as the flour

in the air
in our hair.

"O THE MIND, MIND HAS MOUNTAINS."

I am angry
at this world

that dares to
throw a scrap of sunlight

shredded through lace
precious as it is

dust motes dancing
about your face

you a smiling
photograph

that the sun attempts
to bring alive

& fails.

The fact of your death
still remains.

A clock
...ticks.

A vase
reflects upon itself

in an enormous ornate
gilt mirror

admires
her own flowers

& how they are
arranged.

A fire
spits sparks

sending shadows
scuttling up walls.

A coal scuttle
is either half empty/half full.

A clock
strikes nine
&... chimes

slightly ahead of
the real time.

.A picture
quaint & antique

hangs slightly askew
against the horrid

wall paper
& its unattractive roses.

A record
(an old shellac 78)    

has found a scratch
&  keeps returning to it

picking at the musical phrase
like a scab.

Caruso’s... got...  got... hiccups.

One mirror
gazes into the face
of another mirror.

Both enamoured
of the other

seeing only
themselves.

An un-drunk cup of tea
cools steadily

leaving a thin skin
on top.

A sugar lump
has come to rest

on a small
Turkish carpet

depicting
the delights of Paradise.

A moth falls madly in love
with an old flame

but it soon fizzles
out.

The only thing living
in this room

is an old tattered tortoiseshell
cat asleep

by her master’s
stockinged feet

so deep
she hasn’t even heard



Death
enter
&
leave.


A clock
...ticks.

Last night
I missed you so much

I made love to
your nightdress

... passionately.
        
Now your nightdress
hides from me

slinks under covers and pillows

avoids my eyes.


I can't take another night  without you!

Your nightie can't take another night with me!


I am holding your dresses hostage

threatening them with kisses...caresses

if they make one false move.

Your other clothes
tremble in the wardrobe


...come back to me!

A HUMAN IS CRYING

The dog is dreaming
under the piano

asleep across
its foot pedals.

The clock announces
the seconds

in a loud hear ye hear ye
town cryer's voice.

A bumble bee is arguing
furiously with the glass

of a cracked
window pane.

Time is defeated.

A human is crying.

Time is different
for the clock, the bee and

the crying human.

Time ceases to exist
lost in his grief.

His brother is dead.

Somewhere in the journey
around the sun

he has left the planet.

Earth continues on
without him.

He sees his brother
everywhere.

Strangers
wear his face.

Walk with his gait.

He almost expects
to hear

his voice in the dark
at the turn of the stairs.

He sees him many times
in many mirrors.

Or in the back of a spoon.

His face trapped
in a cobweb.

It always appears
as if...as if

he has just left
the room and

will be back
any second now

but: he isn't. . .

The dog is still
asleep under the piano.

The clock has run
out of time.

The silence is terrifying.

The bee it seems is
dozing on the window ledge.

The human
is crying.

Timothy opens
his mouth

and butterflies
fly out.

The room abounds
with butterflies

all claiming to be
Robert Desnos​.

Words released
into a voice

" a soul
without a body"

moves amongst us
and moves us.

The ghost of Robert's voice...

"Bien qu'elle semble sortir d'un tombeau
Elle ne parle que d'été et de printemps,"

whispers in my ear...

"Elle emplit le corps de joie,
Elle allume aux lèvres sourire."

Carried high on the shoulders
of the voice of Timothy Ades​

Robert Desnos
is passing.

I stand up
and bow

THIS BLOSSOMING INTO BEING

the rose puts
her red armour on

goes to fight
the common enemy

time

her only weapon
an ephemeral beauty

three stars rise
above her head

this her last night
on this earth

fallen petal
by petal

was it enough
that she could say

"I am!"

TO BOLDLY GO

Hour by hour
the snow

grew heavier and heav...i...ER
grew more and more

daring
deciding to boldly go

where no snow
had ever gone before!

It had listened to an entire
box set of early Star Trek

leaking from
the house's windows.

It knew it
off by heart

admired Kirk
adored Spock.

The snow pushed the door
ten-ta-tivel-y ope:N

at first, but. . .now that
push had come to shove

( the latch had not been
latched properly)

opted to" "Wot de. . !"
go for it.

"That's one small step
for a snowflake...one big step

...for snowkind!"
it chuckled hee hee to it self.

"Yavaş. . .yavaş"
it repeated slowly slowly.

It was Turkish snow.

The snow advanced
flake by flake

just putting one flurry
in front of the other

into the( gasp )
"Oh mother!"

living room!

"So, this...
is how humans

- live?"

The bookshelves
feeling a little chilly

woke and whimpered
"Oh my pages...oh...my pages!"

as the unrelenting whiteness
crept nearer and:

- nearer.

"Where is a reader when
you really need one!"

asked a newly acquired
Saito Masaya.

"Isn't anyone gonna do
anything about this!"

screamed the Poems of Oktay
Rifat.

The Poems of Nazim
Hikmet

were...were...were
speechless!

But the humans were busy
snoring.

A string of cartoon Z's
like Christmas decorations

emanated from
the room of the bed.

Even the guilty one
( who would catch hell

in the huh huh morning )
slept the sleep of the innocent

since the Star Trek
had been watched all

the way through and
love had been drunkenly made.

The snow a little
nervous now

in case the book's readers
would come to their rescue

wet
the carpet.

"Oh my giddy flakes...no
but when ya gotta

go ya gotta gooooo!"
smirked the snow.

A mobile phone
asleep on the sofa

heard voices ringing
in its head

suddenly woke
spoke

in a disembodied voice
that went - straight to message.

"Wow...you guys...wow
you should see outside

...it's...like
crazy awesome!"

The snow( held
its breath): "Oh oh...

...an informer!"

It felt like the fallen
book by the carpet's edge

A Spy In The House
Of Love.

It didn't know what
an Anaïs Nin

could be.

It had a lot
to learn.

But the phone
slipped into sleep again

voiceless now.

In the morning they
found it.

"Holy cow...how...?"

Each of the humans
blaming the other

more especially
the guilty human .

"Your mother....
...don't bring my mother into this."

Neither of them spoke to the other
for the rest of the day.

The snow lay
curled up

in the fireplace
dead to the world

fast fast
asleep

drunk on the success
of its excess

dreaming that it had become
human.

A balloon clung
to the ceiling

didn't know how
to get down somehow.

The snow played
possum.

It took an hour
to evict it

with shovels and
curses.

Later, the snow
told the snow

that had been too
afraid to come in

all it had seen
all it had been.

"No...?" said the bottom-
of-the garden snow.

". . .no?"

UP IN THE SKY( for W. W. )

Daddy was a pilotman
went to work in the sky
where bombs came from

he went  to bash the bad men
who mashed all the houses up
made big holes in the road

he told me not to be
frightened but I was and
so was teddy

I didn't like the war
it was too noisy and
kept on too long

the world shook
like an invisible giant
stomping on the ground

Mummy always said
never mind
it will be over soon

but it never was
I prayed it was
God wasn't listening

the black out
ate all the light]
teddy kept his eyes shut tight

next door went away
one morning it was
just not there

a milk bottle
stood on a doorstep
that has no house

Daddy went to work
high above the clouds
one day he never came back

Daddy had to stay
up in the sky
Mummy said he lost his way

I still think of him
living up in the sky dead
not able to come home

being dead means
you can't see someone
and they can't see you

the sky was too high
the ground was too low
so he is always up in the air

I was five
when the bombs fell
breaking the world

now I am 65
but the war still lives
on inside my head

I am older than
my daddy
could ever be

I still don't cry because
Daddy said I mustn't
I tell myself I mustn't

teddy doesn't cry because
he lost both his eyes
so he couldn't

that world now
only lives in photographs
Daddy always smiling

A THIN SLICE OF HAM IN THE HAND IS BETTER THAN A FAT PIG IN A DREAM.

"Never bolt your door
with a boiled carrot!"

as Uncle would say
with a wink

tongue in cheek.

It didn't make any sense
as our door was always

open
we never knew it

( locked ).

And I liked my carrots
raw and stolen

plucked from my father's
little plot

he perplexed
by little human rabbits.

His mud caked boots
standing amazed

as we hid holding
our breaths(

)amongst the flowering
Kerr's Pinks.

But "poets and pigs
are only appreciated

after
their death."

As they say.

Whoever 'they"
were?

But as I always
say:

"Don't be after breaking
your shin on a stool

that isn't
...there!"

WALKING AWAY

I lock my door upon myself,
And bar them out; but who shall wall
Self from myself, most loathed of all?

Who Shall Deliver Me? - Christina Rossetti




I wander through
the landscape

of my so called self
my life left upon a shelf.

The world locked out
my self locked in.

How do I begin
to construct a human being

from this nothingness
I am.

Only my name remains
the same.

My baby throws
her rattle from the pram

talks to me in a language
I can not understand.

"ma...Ma. . .MA
MAM!"

I know how she feels
I too want my Mam.

I clutch my child
tightly 'til she squeals

laughs...then..wails
screams.

I tell myself my name
to convince me who I am.

Pirandello falls upon the ground
the wind speed reading its pages.

A dog wants me
to throw a stick.

I give it a kick.
Walk away.

The baby's crying
getting farther

and farther
away.

Hidden high
in my tree

I watch as morning
creates itself.

The simple miracle of light
erasing night.

From my topmost branches
I live the tree's life.

Look down upon the humans

wondering where & how
I have gone.

Through my window of leaves
sunlight stains my face.

The wind whispers
itself to me.

In a big blue ocean
of summer sky

I call to the kestrel
in Father Hopkins' tongue.

It shrugs off the words
remains untouched

by language

living in an other
dimension to me

hewn from
silence & stillness.

My heart longing to be
this wild...this free.

My uncle's voice
calling me...calling me

back to this all
too human world.

I leave my life as a tree
the wanting to be this bird

return to being
9 year old me.

My uncle's laughter
tossing my mop of curls.

"Thought we'd lost you there
...for a moment!"

THE DANGERS OF READING FLAUBERT....AL FRESCO!
( for Ray )

"Souvent la chaleur d’un beau jour..."

he reads, stops:
kisses her.

" ...Fait rêver fillette à l’amour."

she completes the words
kisses...kisses him.

Dining al fresco
feeling somewhat frisky

they throw caution
to the wind

soon all too soon
Flaubert forgotten

Madame Bovary
discarded on the grass

soon all too soon
even the food forgotten

clothing of both
male and female attire

discarded on the grass
now nothing but gasps

they each
the other's feast

the wind idly turning
Bovary's pages

skipping to the end then
beginning again

until one last ***** gusty
breeze interrupts their play

chasing their clothes
that run away

his boxers hang now
upon the bough

her pink camiknickers..pale pink bra
making a run for it

laughingly they chase
their clothes

this Adam and his Eve

bra floating ****-up
in a pond

the camiknickers never
alas to be found.

And here now on their
50th

they share the same smile
when asked how it was

they came together

remembering their love making
in windy weather

shyly slyly blame
Flaubert

" Il souffla bien fort ce jour-là,
Et le jupon court s’envola."

"tim'rous beastie...an' fellow mortal!"
slaw...unhurrit


you stare at death...the trap sprung

!да да да!

darling daughter chews dad's toupee
when she has her fill
Fido takes over

toupee or not toupee
the hairpiece is having
a bad hair day

Fido and next door's doggie
engage in snarling tug o' war
oops that's torn it

dad now looking like a monk
his bald spot badly
sunburnt

darling daughter kisses
where the hairpiece ought to be
claps and slaps: Da...Da...Da. . .DA!"

it is the only word she knows
in Russian
the world is just one big Yes!

SPEECHLESS
( for B. B. )

The page looked at me
blankly.

The words gathered
inside my head

but refused to
come out.

'Sorry mate...
we're on strike! '

'But why...? '
I cried.

'Do I have to spell it out
for you? '

'Write...write...write! '
'That's all you do! '

'You 'ave us up
all ****** night
it just ain't right! '

'No...I...don't! '
I lied...blatantly.

'Oh...who was that sentence
I saw you with last night? '

'That was no sentence...that was
my haiku! '

'And those poor vowels
...the howls! '

'Look, mate...we're consonants
so we can take it but

...a vowel's a vowel! '

'Now, it's just
our luck
that we're gone & got
ourselves an Irish poet

who is prone
to a little

internal vowel
rhyme! '

'Assonance! '
I said.

'Bless you Guv but
I don't cares wot you'se call it! '

'All we hear all night long is
O...E...I...U! '

And with that
they left

the whole ******
alphabet

absailing out of my head

marching down
my forearm

the whole ****** platoon
now on my patella

now turning at the door
saying: 'See ya fella! '

'Call yourself...call yourself
a ****** poet! '
they jeered

'We're off to Bryan Baker's
head! '

'Now...there's a poet! '

Slam!

The door was silent.

They were gone.

I was...
...I was

...speech-less!

WRITER'S BLOCK

absorbed in haiku
poet absentmindedly
scratches inside of ear
with eraser-tip pencil
breaks off...oh dear...trapped in ear

all sound erased now
tiny tip of eraser
stuck inside of ear
I can hardly hear the hoots
of laughter in A & E

snapped off rubber tip
finally extracted from ear
treated for acute
embarrassment & red face
"The shame will soon fade!" I'm told

wife beside herself
after initial panic
nothing but giggles
bad jokes about writer's block
like Queen Vic...I'm not...amused!



Well...that's today's true life drama done for today...I hope. It could only happen to a poet. Talk about work related injuries! Didn't know haiku could be so dangerous to the health...and you think it's easy being a poet!

The incident brought me back to an earlier time when I had to bring my little girl to A&E in the wee wee hours of the morning when she inserted a red Lego block into an orifice she had an insane interest in exploring. We used to tell her "Don't put things in there dear...they will get stuck and you will have to go to hospital to get them out!"
Little did we know it would turn out exactly like that. She would put all manner of things inside her "special place" to our great consternation....little toy soldiers...pieces of jigsaw. She would call it her "lady's pocket."

late night at A & E
my little girl thrilled to bits
at the adventure
Lego block stuck inside what
she calls her "lady's pocket."

And what manner of haiku was I writing when the pencil eraser disaster struck...why these of course. It could be seen as the pencil's revenge!

in its self the pencil
no longer exists
its shavings dance its nothingness

pencil becoming
nothing but its shavings
so many swirling dervishes

so many pencil shavings
the pencil enjoys
its new life

pencil, then:
not a pencil
wind scatters its shavings

pencil shavings
the secret life of a pencil
no words just little dancers

CROSSING THE RIVER

I, a mere scrap
of a young fella

watching father and mother
argue the toss

about something or other
making me wonder whether

the really love
one another.

He always "Boss" to her.
She to him forever "Mother."

And him always giving in
with an "Alright...yer always right!"


Still see myself
messing about on the river

with the Hammer Hannon
Wiki Warner and the Rue Murray

great pals all
when

the Ma and Da
appear out of nowhere.

I seeing them
them not seeing me.

He, shotgun under an oxter
his arm about her waist.

Four rabbits nonchalantly
thrown over a shoulder.

No longer mother and father
but Jim and Kathleen.

They just themselves
their love and laughter.

Sticks two Woodbines
between his lips

the scratch of a match
as he lights up

places one between her lips
both puffing happily.

Sunlight madly in love
with water.

The Liffey here
lies gently at their feet

tamed with time.

Trousers rolled up to his knees
a breeze flirts with her dress.

Quick as a flash
she jumps on his back

her legs sticking out
between his elbows

all as easy
as you please.

He ferrying himself and herself
along with a load of rabbits

across the hurrying waters of
the moment.

A heron watches
this strange human behaviour.

Shifts from one leg
to the other.

Saying nothing.

My question answered
in a flash of kingfisher blue.

My mind all
water and light.

Water...and..light.

Incense
& music

candle light
& stained glass

these
my religion

the church
of the senses

my only existence

lost
in the sweet jangle

of the swinging brazier

prayer
forming in the air

real & tangible
as a ghost

coiling &
uncoiling

like a snake
made of smoke

wrapping itself
around the choir's

sweet voices

love to see
the words

clothed
in smelly smoke

ascend
the perfumed air

building a stairway
of music

made suddenly
visible

reaching for a Heaven
even then

I knew
did not

exist

glorying only
in the make believe

the theatre
of the self.

BUILDING THE SPHINX

He builds her
the Sphinx

using only his voice &
a few scattered gestures.

Every now & then
he tweaks the tone

& lo the Sphinx
stands before her

ready to bite her head off
with a question.

Her belief
does the rest

and now he watches
the cat being terrified

out of one of its
9 lives all a bristle

as she tells the tabby
the story I told her.

The Sphinx now
living in her voice.

Her dolls too
too terrified

to even run
petrified with fright

as my little minx
becomes the Sphinx.

Or a mop as a prop
becomes a Medusa

and so the myth
becomes realer than real

as the storm
by Jove

throws down
a thunderbolt

and a little girl Medusa
and a little girl Sphinx

prowl about
the living room.

Tongues stained
with blackberries

we collect kisses

falling into ditches

being stung by nettles.

Your dress snags on a briar
and you cry in mock horror.

I cut through the tangle of thorns
as if I were your Prince.

Charming me
you undo
your buttons
& you
(step out of your dress)

as if you were being
stepping out of your self.

Your dress hangs
like a chrysalis.

You let down your golden hair
& we make love then &

there...a tractor & some cows go by
we laugh & try to hide.

The sun beats down on my ***
we giggle & come

return
to the big old *****

town
&
turn

our blackberry picking days
into luscious winter jam.

THE USELESSNESS OF MAPS

You were always
the bit

where the map creased & tore
leaving us unsure

looking through a hole
at our own big toe.

You were always
the bit

where the map was folded in four
and had to be awkwardly unfolded

just to see
where you were.

You were always
the bit

that was just off this map

ending in mid air...

...see next map:

...the missing map!

You were always
the lost map.

You were often
the wrong map.

The map that there was...

...no map of:

After the sudden
sun shower

the leaves gossip
amongst themselves

"...pl....pL. . .PL!"
stutters a rather big leaf

"...op...oP. . .OP!"
another finishes its sentence.

"...pl....pL. . .PL!"
stammers a little leaf

"...op...oP. . .OP!"
proclaims its companion.

I listen to the plip & plop
of it all

as it slithers from one
vowel to the other

waiting for it to "st...
:OP!"

"...SO I DID WEAVE MYSELF INTO THE SENSE..."
( In memory of my Aunt Peggy )

the candle carves
your face
out of the dark

you waver
with its flicker
become a mask

I watch your words
float across the space
between us

I see every syllable
all your pauses
your each and every punctuation

you recite
Herbert
with an American accent

I try to pull you
out of the dark
of the past

but this is all
memory will allow
of you

I say your name
to make you more real
"Peggy...Peggy!" I call to you

now far away
from that lost day
your daughter's love

reminds me of
who you were
to me

your Chicagoan voice
telling me: "Gee....
you've got curls like a girl's!"

"I WON"T THINK ABOUT IT TODAY. . ."

Rhett Butler & Scarlett O'Hara
are playing Battleships.

Rhett is playing like he
doesn't give a ****.

Looks like Scarlett is sunk.

"Ok....5 minutes please!
Principals on set!"

And the game is gone
with the wind.

Mr. Gable and Miss Leigh
assume who they are meant to be

position themselves
where they are meant to be.

"Ok. . .action!"
shouts Mr. Fleming.

ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.

WHEN DEATH COMES, IT WILL HAVE YOUR EYES
(Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi )


I once knew a man
who knew a man

who had seen
F. Scott Fitzgerald

drinking a milkshake
in a drug store

(vanilla or chocolate
he couldn't be sure)

flicking idly
through a magazine

( no he didn't know
which magazine )

in the company of
some blonde.

"I'll never forget
what he said!"

"Let's go to the supermarket
Shelia!" he said.

And that's it?
"That's it!"

His voice caressed
each syllable

as if
he were on stage.

But he was like a man
becoming a manakin

like in that episode of
The Twilight Zone

you know the one?"


In a future that had as yet
to happen.

"I don't know what I had
expected..."

The man who knew the man
who knew the man

who had seen and heard
F. Scott Fitzgerald.

"Maybe a Gatsby or
a Gatsby

who had survived the novel's
tragic ending

and wished
he hadn't!"



Here now
at home

Mr. Fitzgerald
sits in his armchair

eating a chocolate bar
checking out next year's

Princeton
football team.

suddenly like a puppet
yanked on a string

he stands up
hand on mantlepiece

like some bad acting
in a silent movie

before falling
to the floor.

He will never
get up.



Nick and Gatsby come
stand by his dying.

So do Monroe Stahr
and Kathleen Moore

even though
words fail them.

Yet they now
more real than he.

Monroe reads
some last scribbled lines.

"There was a flutter
from the wings of God

and you
lay dead.

Your  books
were in your desk I guess

and some unfinished chaos
in your head

was dumped to nothing
by the great janitress of

destinies."

Gatsby
closes his eyes.

MIDNIGHT FLICKS OVER INTO TOMORROW

"Henry, Henry...?"
his wife's voice

getting shriller and
shriller

he
doesn't answer
her

can't answer her.

Midnight flicks over
into tomorrow

with a little green click
from fluorescent numbers.

It seems as if
she's in the next room.

A piece of solid
reality but

she's not
only a disembodied voice.

She's been a ghost now
these 20 years.

"Henry, Henry..!"
the parrot says again

so much her it seems
she has been reincarnated

Martha
as Polly.

The parrot growing old
with him.

Edith Piaf sings
on old shellac

"Sans amour on n'est rien du tout!"

The parrot joins in on
every "du tout."

"Coming dear..!" he smiles "...coming!"
the parrot scolds him when it  sees him
"So there you are!"

THE MERE MAID'S TALE

I feel like a mermaid
dripping on his kitchen floor
I want to drown in his love

I feel mythical
he just thinks I'd be nice
saucy

I sleep in the bath
he only wants to part my legs
I flick my tail at him

I balance on my tail
run( so to speak )
through the roaring rain

alas I climb out of
the fairytale
he yet another bland Prince in 2-D

I run away to sea
can taste the salt on the wind
its waves welcome me

I need
a Hans Christian Anderson man
a he who...understands me

"THE SMALLE RAYNE DOWNE CAN RAYNE?"

You bloom
in my mind

like a fast forward
film of a flower

going from seed to blossom
in a second or seven

I looking down
from on high

as you pass by
under the bridge

you " no bigger
than your head"

that line from Lear

a chestnut red
flowing over your shoulders

you the only one
with head uncovered

everyone else
suddenly become

an umbrella
with legs

a river of people flowing
down the street

like different
coloured leaves

and you look up
and even from this distance

of several
years or more

your smile
the only thing

I see. . .

Death
unable

to take that
from me.

WILD WAVES CRASHING
ABOUT THE OLD HEAD OF KINSALE

I scramble
into your bed

like I'd do when I was 2
or four or more.

Rub your back for you
(you my 95 year old child )
until sleep gathers you in.

Just like you did for me
when I was your little boy.

I listen to you as slowly slowly
your dreams capture you.

I love your each and every breath.

And when you awake
two hours later

there I am
still rubbing your back.

You smile and tell me
your mother would do the same

when you were a tiny boy
waves crashing about the Old Head of Kinsale.

So here we all are
the backrubbers of the ages

all in the one place
sharing different times

comforting...soothing
easing all the pain

waves crashing about the Old Head of Kinsale.

The photo freezes
us into

this exact
instant.

Yet leaves out
the intense heat.

We locked into this
kiss forever

happening in colour
frozen in B&W.;

Curiously there are no
insects in this

photographic world.

Yet so many
on that "then."

We are at once badly
smitten & bitten.

Our friend's song
also is not

captured
as the world stops

for just that
instant.

Her naked voice
stripped of words

her vocalise
tangled amongst

sunlight and leaves.

A fingerprint in purple
paint( added years later )

is not visible
on this

day of days
a thing tangible

as a soul
made visible

in deep purple.

The photo also fails
to convey

your lip's softness

the kiss's smell
of Chardonnay & menthol ciggies.

Sweet sweat
trickling into eyes wide open

our breaths
mingling.

I take in all
the photo elects

to leave
out.

The kiss
hidden now

by death...
...the death of days

and that infamous
famous purple fingerprint.

THE FROG'S CHORUS

old pond...new frogs
the sound of puffed up braggarts
"Brexit! Brexit! Brexit!"

HER ROYAL ISHNESS

A woman
of few words.

She was considered
quite a dish.

So stylish.
A la Lillian Gish

"Are you cold?"
I asked as host.

"...ish!"
she offered

barely moving
her lips.

"When would you like to eat
8 or..?"

"8...ish!"

She could shoehorn her "ish" tidbit
into almost any conversation.

"Yes;.veggie!"
"No...no fish!"

She let her eyes
do all the talking.

She absorbed the room
and all the men and all their mores.

Found them wanting.
Knew what they wanted.
Wanted none of it.
Left them panting.

She left when it was getting
late...ish.

"Tired!"
"...ish!" she ished.

Like a ventriloquist.
Her lips barely parting.

She spoke with a lisp
and a cold.

So that a kiss
became a khiss.

I gave her the goodbye khiss
she wished.

She left and left us
each bereft.

As if a voiceover
or an intercom had announced

her departure.

"Her Royal Ishness
has left the building!"