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

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.

A CLOCK TICKS

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.

A CLOCK TICKS

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.

A CLOCK TICKS

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.

A CORPORAL'S DEFINITION OF POETRY

The perfect summer's day.
The sky a postcard blue.

Hate distorted voices...faces
chanting: "STICK IT IN HIS GUTS!"

A lark ascending
throws itself against the vault of Heaven.

Only to be
rejected.

"...MAKE IT HURT...TWIST IT ABOUT
**** THE *****ING *******!"

God has a sick sense
of humour to have

bayonet practice
on such a perfect day.

The world whirlpools
down the plug hole

of Corporal 'Orrible's
almighty mouth.

He hates me because I
(Pt. Dempsey D. No. 835572)

am not showing enough
hate to **** a sandbag.

Sweat trickles down my spine
vertebra by vertebra.

The sandbag ***** the blade in
and won't give it back again.

I pull it out and fall
upon my derrière.

The sandbag bleeds sand.
Mocks my efforts

which displaces the book
I have about my person.

"What's this...what's this!"
Corporal 'Orrible hisses.

"A book, Corporal!"
"I can ****** well see it's a book!"

"A poetry book, Corporal!
IN PARENTHESIS by David Jones."

"In...in...wotsis do you think I'm
thick or wot!"

"Wot, Corporal?"
"Don't you wot me sunny Jim!"

His spit
peppers my face.

"There isn't enough white space
around the words for it to be a poem!"

"That's not an accurate definition
of a poem, Corporal!"

He froths at the mouth
tears it in half...throws it over his shoulder.

"Why you impudent little pup!
*** that rifle up...up....up!"

He runs me around the training ground
three times and then three times.

Later I go back and find
only half of it.

The half I have already read.
A sheep is nibbling it.

But like the Corporal it isn't
to his taste.

Over 40 years go by and
here I am an ex-army man.

Finishing the second half of
Jones' IN PARENTHESIS.

Remembering all too well the hell of
running 'round the training ground

three times and then three times
with my rifle up above my head.

Oh the agony of bearing arms.
Remembering too never to argue

with a corporal's definition of
poetry during bayonet practice.

A CORPORAL'S DEFINITION OF POETRY

The perfect summer's day.
The sky a postcard blue.

Hate distorted voices...faces
chanting: "STICK IT IN HIS GUTS!"

A lark ascending
throws itself against the vault of Heaven.

Only to be
rejected.

"...MAKE IT HURT...TWIST IT ABOUT
**** THE *****ING *******!"

God has a sick sense
of humour to have

bayonet practice
on such a perfect day.

The world whirlpools
down the plug hole

of Corporal 'Orrible's
almighty mouth.

He hates me because I
(Pt. Dempsey D. No. 835572)

am not showing enough
hate to **** a sandbag.

Sweat trickles down my spine
vertebra by vertebra.

The sandbag ***** the blade in
and won't give it back again.

I pull it out and fall
upon my derrière.

The sandbag bleeds sand.
Mocks my efforts

which displaces the book
I have about my person.

"What's this...what's this!"
Corporal 'Orrible hisses.

"A book, Corporal!"
"I can ****** well see it's a book!"

"A poetry book, Corporal!
IN PARENTHESIS by David Jones."

"In...in...wotsis do you think I'm
thick or wot!"

"Wot, Corporal?"
"Don't you wot me sunny Jim!"

His spit
peppers my face.

"There isn't enough white space
around the words for it to be a poem!"

"That's not an accurate definition
of a poem, Corporal!"

He froths at the mouth
tears it in half...throws it over his shoulder.

"Why you impudent little pup!
*** that rifle up...up....up!"

He runs me around the training ground
three times and then three times.

Later I go back and find
only half of it.

The half I have already read.
A sheep is nibbling it.

But like the Corporal it isn't
to his taste.

Over 40 years go by and
here I am an ex-army man.

Finishing the second half of
Jones' IN PARENTHESIS.

Remembering all too well the hell of
running 'round the training ground

three times and then three times
with my rifle up above my head.

Oh the agony of bearing arms.
Remembering too never to argue

with a corporal's definition of
poetry during bayonet practice.

A COUPS DE POURQUOI

Time waiting
like a lowly servant

coughing politely every
now and then

to remind them that
ahem...the world is...waiting

their ******* laughing
"So, let it...wait!"

The world tapping a toe
impatiently

eyes turned
up to Heaven

Time shrugging its shoulders
in a "what-can-I do" way.

She laughs at her and him
( it was always her and him )

puppets now of the imagination
memory's home movie

Time's revenge

remembering how it had been
now how

the train hurtles
through a darkness

her reflection made of night
and cold glass

hung there
suspended

staring into her own
crying eyes

knowing it could
never last what

a fool she'd been
she scorned herself

she this living
painting of the past

Reality once again
getting the upper hand

Time and the World
put in their place

the expensive meal
uneaten on the plate

the ship leavng
the town behind

slowly so
reluctant to do so

before distance and the dark
take control

'til the town too
is nothing

but a memory
hostage to the past

Jacques Brel's voice
lost inside her head

"...a coups de pourquoi..."

Now, here, somewhere
in mid-Atlantic

she finds herself
in the middle of nowhere

the middle of nowhere
exactly

where she
wanted to be

"oublier le temps
oublier le temps
oublier le temps."

A COUPS DE POURQUOI

Time waiting
like a lowly servant

coughing politely every
now and then

to remind them that
ahem...the world is...waiting

their ******* laughing
"So, let it...wait!"

The world tapping a toe
impatiently

eyes turned
up to Heaven

Time shrugging its shoulders
in a "what-can-I do" way.

She laughs at her and him
( it was always her and him )

puppets now of the imagination
memory's home movie

Time's revenge

remembering how it had been
now how

the train hurtles
through a darkness

her reflection made of night
and cold glass

hung there
suspended

staring into her own
crying eyes

knowing it could
never last what

a fool she'd been
she scorned herself

she this living
painting of the past

Reality once again
getting the upper hand

Time and the World
put in their place

the expensive meal
uneaten on the plate

the ship leavng
the town behind

slowly so
reluctant to do so

before distance and the dark
take control

'til the town too
is nothing

but a memory
hostage to the past

Jacques Brel's voice
lost inside her head

"...a coups de pourquoi..."

Now, here, somewhere
in mid-Atlantic

she finds herself
in the middle of nowhere

the middle of nowhere
exactly

where she
wanted to be

"oublier le temps
oublier le temps
oublier le temps."

A COUPS DE POURQUOI

Time waiting
like a lowly servant

coughing politely every
now and then

to remind them that
ahem...the world is...waiting

their ******* laughing
"So, let it...wait!"

The world tapping a toe
impatiently

eyes turned
up to Heaven

Time shrugging its shoulders
in a "what-can-I do" way.

She laughs at her and him
( it was always her and him )

puppets now of the imagination
memory's home movie

Time's revenge

remembering how it had been
now how

the train hurtles
through a darkness

her reflection made of night
and cold glass

hung there
suspended

staring into her own
crying eyes

knowing it could
never last what

a fool she'd been
she scorned herself

she this living
painting of the past

Reality once again
getting the upper hand

Time and the World
put in their place

the expensive meal
uneaten on the plate

the ship leaving
the town behind

slowly so
reluctant to do so

before distance and the dark
take control

'til the town too
is nothing

but a memory
hostage to the past

Jacques Brel's voice
lost inside her head

"...a coups de pourquoi..."

Now, here, somewhere
in mid-Atlantic

she finds herself
in the middle of nowhere

the middle of nowhere
exactly

where she
wanted to be

"oublier le temps
oublier le temps
oublier le temps."

A COUPS DE POURQUOI

Time waiting
like a lowly servant
coughing politely every

now and then
to remind them that
ahem...the world is...waiting

their *******
laughing
"So, let it...wait!"

the world tapping a toe
impatiently
eyes turned up to Heaven

Time
shrugging its shoulders
in a "what-can-I do" way

she laughs
at her and him
( it was always her and him )

puppets now
of the imagination
memory's home movie

Time's revenge
remembering how it had been
now how

the train hurtles
through a darkness
her reflection made of night

and cold glass
hung there
suspended

staring into her own
crying eyes
knowing it could

never last what
a fool she'd been
she scorned herself

she this
living
painting of the past

Reality
once again
getting the upper hand

Time and the World
put in their place
the expensive meal

uneaten on the plate
the ship leaving
the town behind

slowly so
reluctant
to do so

before distance
and the dark
take control

'til the town too
is nothing but a memory
hostage to the past

Jacques Brel's voice
lost inside her head
"...a coups de pourquoi..."

now, here,
somewhere
in mid-Atlantic

she finds herself
in the middle of nowhere
the middle of nowhere

exactly
where she
wanted to be

"oublier le temps
oublier le temps
oublier le temps."

ACQUIRING THE LANGUAGE

Like a fairy tale princess I
pricking my thumb on a word

and falling asleep
in its sound.

"Briar...!" I whisper
to my self.

Become the word,
All its syllables.

I never want to
wake from its dream.

The word is
my world now.

I chant it
as a spell.

I say it slow.
I say it fast.

Fast like stretched elastic.
Then like elastic snapping back.

But the large people
who think they know everything

always come and spoil my fun
kiss me on my curls.

"Ok..time for tea..." or
"Ya wanna do wee wees!"

NO I could scream
"I'm playing with my newest word!"

I in love
with my word.

Wanting to live in it
for ever.

But as it happens
it is time for tea.

And I have to...have to
wee.

The music
tiptoes

through
the room

careful not to
wake the sleeping

photographs
of the dead

their lives
trapped behind glass

amongst vast fields
of wallpaper violets

stopping to
caress

the singular
beauty

of the rose
dreaming

in its chipped
vase

of the garden
where it was born

curtains led
by a breeze

into their dance
gazing upon the green

that unfurls
about the house

the music
wounded now

by a tear
that grown upon

her cheek
note by note

a woman staring into space

the cat asleep
upon her toes

the music retreating
back into the mahogany cabinet

curling itself
into its circle

a whirlpool of black
shellac

the music
lost in the silence

only its breathing
audible now

in the runoff
groove

the needle returning
to its proper place

with a click
the last light

stealing across
the lawn

ADAGIO

the music tiptoes through the room
careful not to wake the sleeping

photographs of the dead
their lives trapped behind glass

amongst vast fields of wallpaper violets
stopping to caress the singular beauty

of the rose dreaming
in its chipped vase

of the garden where it was born
curtains led by a breeze

into their dance gazing upon the green
that unfurls about the house

the music wounded now by a tear
that grows upon her cheek note by note

a woman staring into space
the cat asleep upon her toes

the music retreating back into the mahogany cabinet
curling itself into its circle

a whirlpool of black shellac

the music lost in the silence
only its breathing audible now

in the runoff groove
the needle returning to its proper place

with a click the last light
stealing across the lawn

ADAGIO

the music
tiptoes

through
the room

careful not to
wake the sleeping

photographs
of the dead

their lives
trapped behind glass

amongst vast fields
of wallpaper violets

stopping to
caress

the singular
beauty

of the rose
dreaming

in its chipped
vase

of the garden
where it was born

curtains led
by a breeze

into their dance
gazing upon the green

that unfurls
about the house

the music
wounded now

by a tear
that grown upon

her cheek
note by note

a woman staring into space

the cat asleep
upon her toes

the music retreating
back into the mahogany cabinet

curling itself
into its circle

a whirlpool of black
shellac

the music
lost in the silence

only its breathing
audible now

in the runoff
groove

the needle returning
to its proper place

with a click
the last light

stealing across
the lawn

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF AN ORANGE


ignored by the gulls
an orange
sits on the beach

"I'm a stranger here myself."
the orange tells a seashell
trying to strike up a conversation

a little girl runs towards them
"Ah...my child!"
cries out the orange

orange & seashell
at home
in the girl's pockets

A DINOSAUR EATING THE NIGHT

Death had frozen
his mind

and all his musings become icicles
stalactites and stalagmites  of thought.

He snapped a thought off
an even number of stalactites and stalagmites .

Then he placed them one by
one in his jaws

like row upon row of
dinosaur teeth.

"Roar!' he roared
roaring himself out of this

"whatever it is!"

"Roar!" he roared again

eating the night
and all it brought

with his new stalactitestalagmite
dinosaur teeth.

When the night was all
eaten he

lay back and
fell asleep

inside the dream's
dream.

"Brother!" he said

and his dead brother
comforted him as if

he was not dead.

"Brother!" he cried

but the world had
reappeared

ready for the new day
that was spread before it.

A DINOSAUR EATING THE NIGHT

Death had frozen
his mind

and all his musings become icicles
stalactites and stalagmites  of thought.

He snapped a thought off
an even number of stalactites and stalagmites .

Then he placed them one by
one in his jaws

like row upon row of
dinosaur teeth.

"Roar!' he roared
roaring himself out of this

"whatever it is!"

"Roar!" he roared again

eating the night
and all it brought

with his new stalactitestalagmite
dinosaur teeth.

When the night was all
eaten he

lay back and
fell asleep

inside the dream's
dream.

"Brother!" he said

and his dead brother
comforted him as if

he was not dead.

"Brother!" he cried

but the world had
reappeared

ready for the new day
that was spread before it.

A DINOSAUR EATING THE NIGHT

Death had frozen
his mind

and all his musings become icicles
stalactites and stalagmites  of thought.

He snapped a thought off
an even number of stalactites and stalagmites .

Then he placed them one by
one in his jaws

like row upon row of
dinosaur teeth.

"Roar!' he roared
roaring himself out of this

"whatever it is!"

"Roar!" he roared again

eating the night
and all it brought

with his new stalactitestalagmite
dinosaur teeth.

When the night was all
eaten he

lay back and
fell asleep

inside the dream's
dream.

"Brother!" he said

and his dead brother
comforted him as if

he was not dead.

"Brother!" he cried

but the world had
reappeared

ready for the new day
that was spread before it.

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.

A DISH FIT FOR THE GODS

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.

A DOOR AJAR ON REALITY

The blackbird led
his wife

up the garden path

as if the crazy paving
had been laid especially

for them &
their kind.

I thought it odd
that

they walked instead
of flew

as if they were acting
the human.

They both
deep in conversation

about bird
current affairs

or gossip
about those noisy robins.

When they hit the deck
they both stood

in a deck chair
each

continuing what
they had been

conversing
about.

Maybe blackbirds
had taken over

the world
& I

the last human
to know.

Or, all humans
had been changed

into blackbirds.

They suddenly
made loud caw.

I took to the air
& flew.

A DOOR AJAR ON REALITY

The blackbird led
his wife

up the garden path

as if the crazy paving
had been laid especially

for them &
their kind.

I thought it odd
that

they walked instead
of flew

as if they were acting
the human.

They both
deep in conversation

about bird
current affairs

or gossip
about those noisy robins.

When they hit the deck
they both stood

in a deck chair
each

continuing what
they had been

conversing
about.

Maybe blackbirds
had taken over

the world
& I

the last human
to know.

Or, all humans
had been changed

into blackbirds.

They suddenly
made loud caw.

I took to the air
& flew.

A DOOR AJAR ON REALITY

The blackbird led
his wife

up the garden path

as if the crazy paving
had been laid especially

for them &
their kind.

I thought it odd
that

they walked instead
of flew

as if they were acting
the human.

They both
deep in conversation

about bird
current affairs

or gossip
about those noisy robins.

When they hit the deck
they both stood

in a deck chair
each

continuing what
they had been

conversing
about.

Maybe blackbirds
had taken over

the world
& I

the last human
to know.

Or, all humans
had been changed

into blackbirds.

They suddenly
made loud caw.

I took to the air
& flew.

A DOOR AJAR ON REALITY

The blackbird led
his wife

up the garden path

as if the crazy paving
had been laid especially

for them &
their kind.

I thought it odd
that

they walked instead
of flew

as if they were acting
the human.

They both
deep in conversation

about bird
current affairs

or gossip
about those noisy robins.

When they hit the deck
they both stood

in a deck chair
each

continuing what
they had been

conversing
about.

Maybe blackbirds
had taken over

the world
& I

the last human
to know.

Or, all humans
had been changed

into blackbirds.

They suddenly
made loud caw.

I took to the air
& flew.

A DOOR AJAR ON REALITY

The blackbird led
his wife

up the garden path

as if the crazy paving
had been laid especially

for them &
their kind.

I thought it odd
that

they walked instead
of flew

as if they were acting
the human.

They both
deep in conversation

about bird
current affairs

or gossip
about those noisy robins.

When they hit the deck
they both stood

in a deck chair
each

continuing what
they had been

conversing
about.

Maybe blackbirds
had taken over

the world
& I

the last human
to know.

Or, all humans
had been changed

into blackbirds.

They suddenly
made loud caw.

I took to the air
& flew.

A DOOR AJAR ON REALITY

The blackbird led
his wife

up the garden path

as if the crazy paving
had been laid especially

for them &
their kind.

I thought it odd
that

they walked instead
of flew

as if they were acting
the human.

They both
deep in conversation

about bird
current affairs

or gossip
about those noisy robins.

When they hit the deck
they both stood

in a deck chair
each

continuing what
they had been

conversing
about.

Maybe blackbirds
had taken over

the world
& I

the last human
to know.

Or, all humans
had been changed

into blackbirds.

They suddenly
made loud caw.

I took to the air
& flew.

A DOOR AJAR ON REALITY

the blackbird led
his wife
up the garden path

as if the crazy paving
had been laid especially
for them & their kind

I thought it odd that
they walked instead
of flew

as if they
were acting
the human

they both
deep in conversation
about bird current affairs

or gossip
about those
noisy robins

when they hit the deck
they both stood
in a deck chair each

continuing what
they had been
conversing  about

maybe blackbirds
had taken over
the world

& I
the last human
to know

or all other humans
had been changed
into blackbirds

they suddenly
made loud caw
I took to the air and flew

A DOOR AJAR ON REALITY

The blackbird led
his wife

up the garden path

as if the crazy paving
had been laid especially

for them &
their kind.

I thought it odd
that

they walked instead
of flew

as if they were acting
the human.

They both
deep in conversation

about bird
current affairs

or gossip
about those noisy robins.

When they hit the deck
they both stood

in a deck chair
each

continuing what
they had been

conversing
about.

Maybe blackbirds
had taken over

the world
& I

the last human
to know.

Or, all humans
had been changed

into blackbirds.

They suddenly
made loud caw.

I took to the air
& flew.

A DOOR AJAR ON REALITY

The blackbird led
his wife

up the garden path

as if the crazy paving
had been laid especially

for them &
their kind.

I thought it odd
that

they walked instead
of flew

as if they were acting
the human.

They both
deep in conversation

about bird
current affairs

or gossip
about those noisy robins.

When they hit the deck
they both stood

in a deck chair
each

continuing what
they had been

conversing
about.

Maybe blackbirds
had taken over

the world
& I

the last human
to know.

Or, all humans
had been changed

into blackbirds.

They suddenly
made loud caw.

I took to the air
& flew.

A DRAGON LOVES ME, MOTHER!

Wild eyed
she dares to tell her mother:

“A dragon loves me, mother!”

Her mother
more than a little perturbed

wails: “Why...why...oh
why. . .

do you always fall for
mythical creatures?”

“Well, at least
it’s not another ****** saint!”

“Oh you have had more
than your fair share

of saints!”

“Why can’t you go for a butcher, a baker
or even( God forbid )a candlestick maker?”

“What was the name
of your last saint?”

“George the something
or other...the jealous one?”

“Just wait ‘til he finds out
you’ve dumped him for a dragon!”

“A dragon...what will it be next
eh...eh?”

“An unicorn...a chimera?”
her mother moans on and on.

But wild eyed and dreaming
daughter’s not even listening

dreaming only
of her dragon

of his fiery breath
of his shiny scales
of the graceful curl of his tail.

“A dragon loves me...”
“A dragon loves me...”

she whispers
to the inner core

of her
self.

A DRAGON LOVES ME, MOTHER!

Wild eyed
she dares to tell her mother:

“A dragon loves me, mother!”

Her mother
more than a little perturbed

wails: “Why...why...oh
why. . .

do you always fall for
mythical creatures?”

“Well, at least
it’s not another ****** saint!”

“Oh you have had more
than your fair share

of saints!”

“Why can’t you go for a butcher, a baker
or even( God forbid )a candlestick maker?”

“What was the name
of your last saint?”

“George the something
or other...the jealous one?”

“Just wait ‘til he finds out
you’ve dumped him for a dragon!”

“A dragon...what will it be next
eh...eh?”

“An unicorn...a chimera?”
her mother moans on and on.

But wild eyed and dreaming
daughter’s not even listening

dreaming only
of her dragon

of his fiery breath
of his shiny scales
of the graceful curl of his tail.

“A dragon loves me...”
“A dragon loves me...”

she whispers
to the inner core

of her
self.

. . .A FOREIGN COUNTRY

The world is gone.

That world does not exist.

Yet, we:
persist. . .

try to step back
in time...to a time

that is -
no longer.

Houses, even trees and a hill
have vanished in time.

As if Time were
a virus...a disease

called
Life.

One walks through
one's past.

The ghost of who
you used to be.

You had left this place
so that you

could become
the you

you are
now.

The other you has only been
the means

to get you to
this present you.

Look...the Future opens
at your footstep.

The 'you" you have yet
to be

...beckons.

Walk into your self.

Do not be afraid.

Or, if afraid, then
only a little.

AFTER LONDON

The silence deepens.

As if it were a living being
it forages in the forest.

The next step taken
takes me out of the present

into history
into fantasy

as if I have become
a fairy story.

Tropes trooping through
the clearing.

The huff and puff
of a bad wind rising.

The silence broken.

Inside  the belly
of the forest

where green is
the only colour seen

lies a partly
digested house.

Vines snaking through
its empty windows.

Its roof thrown
upon its floor.

Its wall crumbling
back into nature.

I sit and read my
Richard Jefferies.

A finger of frond
reading along with me

eager to turn
the next page.

The silence
deepens.

AFTER LONDON

The silence deepens.

As if it were a living being
it forages in the forest.

The next step taken
takes me out of the present

into history
into fantasy

as if I have become
a fairy story.

Tropes trooping through
the clearing.

The huff and puff
of a big bad wind.

The silence broken.

Inside  the belly
of the forest

where green is
the only colour seen

lies a partly
digested house.

Vines snaking through
its empty windows.

Its roof thrown
upon its floor.

Its wall crumbling
back into nature.

I sit and read my
Richard Jefferies.

A finger of frond
reading along with me

eager to turn
the next page.

The silence
deepens.

*

Richard Jeffeeries...he of the beautiful nature writing that influenced the nature writing of poet Edward Thomas.
Jefferies's novel, After London (1885), can be seen as an early example of "post-apocalyptic fiction": after some sudden and unspecified catastrophe has depopulated England, the countryside reverts to nature, and the few survivors to a quasi-medieval way of life.
The house gone to ruin that nature takes back is my memory of numerous houses I have come across including even one on the island of Lampedusa

AFTER LONDON

The silence deepens.

As if it were a living being
it forages in the forest.

The next step taken
takes me out of the present

into history
into fantasy

as if I have become
a fairy story.

Tropes trooping through
the clearing.

The huff and puff
of a big bad wind.

The silence broken.

Inside  the belly
of the forest

where green is
the only colour seen

lies a partly
digested house.

Vines snaking through
its empty windows.

Its roof thrown
upon its floor.

Its wall crumbling
back into nature.

I sit and read my
Richard Jefferies.

A finger of frond
reading along with me

eager to turn
the next page.

The silence
deepens.


*


Richard Jefferies...he of the beautiful nature writing that influenced the nature writing of poet Edward Thomas.

Jefferies's novel, After London (1885), can be seen as an early example of "post-apocalyptic fiction": after some sudden and unspecified catastrophe has depopulated England, the countryside reverts to nature, and the few survivors to a quasi-medieval way of life.

The house gone to ruin that nature takes back is my memory of numerous houses I have come across including even one on the island of Lampedusa.

She surrounded herself
with strangers

sat in her seat
( oblivious to all )

rose up up & up
in the air

until houses
looked like scale models

of themselves
people became ants

cars...toys

a lake a broken
compact mirror

the countryside a map
come to life

until all was wrapped
in the cotton wool of clouds

(and time flew
backwards)and

only then did she
allow her self to cry

and a skinny stewardess
with a stupid-stuck-on-smile

enquired" You...
. . .alright Miss?"

AFTER THE ROW

Built an over large snowman
on your front doorstep

&
hid behind it.

Rang your doorbell

until you were
annoyed  by it.

“Yes...yes! ”
you flung open the door

to be confronted
with a snowman

telling you
he loved you

until slowly

your heart
began

to melt.

AFTER THE ROW

Built an over large
snowman

on your front doorstep
&
hid behind it.

Rang your doorbell

until you were annoyed
by it.

“Yes...yes! ”
you flung open the door

to be confronted
with a snowman

telling you
he loved you

until slowly

your heart
began

to melt.

**

SNOWBALL WARS!

Use a shiny blue megaphone
to magnify the menace

in my voice.

My snarl barks curt commands

as authentic as
any movie scene I've seen

with a Rod Steiger fat ugly cop
tone.

'We know you're in there! '

'We've got the house surrounded! '

'You don't stand a chance! '

'Give yourself up & come out with
yer hands up! '

And, it's true:

I have ringed the house
with an army of snowmen

(some better trained than others)

others a little shaky
nothing more than half-made rookies.

Their nasty little coal black eyes
trained on the door

a snowball in each of
their twitchy twiggy fingers

more for effect than
actual firepower.

I command
from behind the line.

My little pyramid
of snowballs at the ready

waits eagerly at my right hand
longing to be thrown.

A tense suspenseful
second that seems to last for ever

then suddenly
you emerge

a human blur
dashing from the door

like the last freeze frame from
BUTCH CASSIDY & THE SUNDANCE KID.

My army of snowmen
are caught on the hop

frozen to the spot
not expecting the unexpected.

'What now...boss? '
they scream

losing their nerve.

You are armed
to the teeth

with snowballs
frozen from the fridge

one or two snowmen
have already lost their heads

another has his snowball
shot from his hand

as you break through
the cordon

determined to take me
down.

Get me
(you reckon)

& all the snowmen
will just cave in

turn
& run.

Your lipstick
yells redly

(voice made visible)

I take a snowball
to the heart

fall in almost
slow motion

as you leap upon me

kiss me

...to death!

AFTER THE ROW

Built an over large
snowman

on your front doorstep
&
hid behind it.

Rang your doorbell

until you were annoyed
by it.

“Yes...yes! ”
you flung open the door

to be confronted
with a snowman

telling you
he loved you

until slowly

your heart
began

to melt.

AFTER THE ROW

Built an over large
snowman

on your front doorstep
&
hid behind it.

Rang your doorbell

until you were annoyed
by it.

“Yes...yes! ”
you flung open the door

to be confronted
with a snowman

telling you
he loved you

until slowly

your heart
began

to melt.

AFTER THE ROW

Built an over large snowman
on your front doorstep

&
hid behind it.

Rang your doorbell

until you were
annoyed  by it.

“Yes...yes! ”
you flung open the door

to be confronted
with a snowman

telling you
he loved you

until slowly

your heart
began

to melt.

*

l

AFTER THE ROW



built an over large
snowman
on your front doorstep


&
(
)hid behind it



rang your doorbell until
you were
annoyed  by it



“Yes...yes! ”
you flung open the door
to be confronted


with a snowman
telling you
he loved you



until slowly your heart
began
to melt. . .

Built an over large
snowman
on your front doorstep
&
hid behind it.

Rang your doorbell

until you were annoyed
by it.

“Yes...yes! ”
you flung open the door

to be confronted
with a snowman

telling you
he loved you

until slowly

your heart
began

to melt.

AFTER YOU

( for Bud )

Time is now
divided

between before &
after you.

It is as if
a line has been drawn

down the sky
ending in a loud clang

a very definite then
& now. . .

Even your ghost pleads
for  me to go on

as if I had a choice.

I go on because I have to
go on.

Needs must
and all that.

But when my mind is not
looking..I. . .

sneak back into the past
have the chats we never had

...the last lost laughs.

Tell you the latest score
'cos I know you'd want to know.

Or I sneak you
into a poem

make you live

let you live
a life of words.

Then a voice says:
"Are you listening to me?

And I smuggle myself
back into the present.

Say: "Sorry...sorry yes
I am!"

AFTER YOU

( for Bud )

Time is now
divided

between before &
after you.

It is as if
a line has been drawn

down the sky
ending in a loud clang

a very definite then
& now. . .

Even your ghost pleads
for  me to go on

as if I had a choice.

I go on because I have to
go on.

Needs must
and all that.

But when my mind is not
looking..I. . .

sneak back into the past
have the chats we never had

...the last lost laughs.

Tell you the latest score
'cos I know you'd want to know.

Or I sneak you
into a poem

make you live

let you live
a life of words.

Then a voice says:
"Are you listening to me?

And I smuggle myself
back into the present.

Say: "Sorry...sorry yes
I am!"

AGAINST THE BRIGHTNESS OF TIME

She doesn't know
she has a year left

... to live.

She is a photograph
shielding her eyes

against the brightness
of Time.

She is looking into the Future
to see if she can see me.

She has not been introduced
to her Death(as yet)    

but it...knows her.

She will never see
this photograph

that holds her so
tenderly

as if it loved her.

It comes from
an undeveloped roll

left over in a dusty
back drawer

that only came to light
years later.

An unknown roll
that gave birth

to these photos

that now stand
in the photo frames

of those who had
loved her.

She looks
back at me

now in disbelief

that she has
become

just this photo

a little scrap
of memory

caught on the barbwire
of Time

struggling
in my mind

to break free

her voice
(stealing through Time)    

still asking
the question:

'Do you love
me...? '

I telling
the photograph:

'I do! '

*

AGAINST THE BRIGHTNESS OF TIME

You smile back at me
not realising you are
only a photo.

*
These two poems are two years apart in time.  The haiku was the original and existed in itself for all that time. That's all I wanted to say...or rather that's all I could say. Now the haiku has acted as a seedling and manifested the blossoming of the thought...one is the seed...the other the flowering.

Most story-telling poems can be shrunk down to the essence of a haiku so the process works both ways. Why it should go one way or the other at the time...no one knows...least of all me! I like it when this happens because you come in at a different angle to the emotional world of the poem and the whole terrain is different. It is the best of both worlds because you can see the road not taken.

Both poems are a journey and an experience that inform me with what they have found out as they wandered around my mind.  They bring back different gifts and different signs.

I often lose poems and end up re-writing them only to find the original again and so am left with two different viewpoints of the same situation. It always surprises me how differently I deal with them as I move through time.  I also may just return and return to the same moment again and again in a poem as I try to understand it myself.

When I write a poem...I don't know where I am going to end up myself or know the answer that the poem searched for...the poem is always an other question searching out another question.

AGAINST THE WEIGHT OF A FEATHER

9/11
crashes into Maths class.

The boys whoop and jeer
treat it as a video game.

"Ohs" and "Wows!"
as death unfurls.

They laugh with glee.

Yes, this is a video game.
For real.

We watch aghast
at what appear to be

people jumping
rather than...

the unimaginable is
happening.

Fractions and equivalences
are left behind.

What we are seeing does not
add up.

Numbly we
continue on

- the boys still hyper -

Ancient History.

A jackal-headed God
holds the scales

weighing us
against the weight

of a feather.

AGAINST THE WEIGHT OF A FEATHER

9/11
crashes into Maths class
the boys whoop and jeer

treat it as a video game
"Ohs" and "Wows!"
as death unfurls

they laugh with glee
and yes, this is a video game
- for real

we watch aghast
at what appear to be
people jumping rather than...

the unimaginable is happening
fractions and equivalences
are left behind

what we are seeing does not
add up...numbly we continue on
the boys still hyper

Ancient History -
a jackal-headed God
holds the scales

weighing us
against the weight
of a feather

& AGAIN: "YES!"

He stepped out of
the photo

stretched and
gave a great yawn.

He had been standing by that
wall it seemed forever.

The sun shone
in black&white.

Outside it was
night.

He had never seen  his grandson
who lived in colour

on the mantlepiece just
newly born.

He strode out boldly
in 3-D

with the strange gait of a 2-D'er
trying to put his best foot forward.

It was a long long way to
the photo of Tipperary

and the smiling newborn boy
but by God he made it.

His grandson lay smiling
in a shaft of sunlight

that rocked him gently
and gently.

He stepped into the colour
and turned into a nice sepia.

He held his grandson
against his chest

smiling
in Kodachrome.

Then put him back
in the frame.

He managed to return
to his own black& white

as headlights travelled
across the ceiling

before the telephone rang
and the morning awoke

and sleepy feet from above
went to answer it with a yawn:

"Yes...yes. . ."

& again:
"YES!"