You did not want him to touch you at first
But he did anyway
Held you so your feet were off the ground
(put me down you thought)

But there was something in his lift
The easy, irritating way almost
He did it to you
Like you had no substance

But when he put you down and
Looked long
You wished
-and you were -

Still up there.

Light and dark and drills and drainrods
In several windows where a wind a move
A night shale fall

Once was.

Hovering hooked hands
Hating the alliteration as much as
Unwanted rhyme.

Too inward now
So go out to the different dark
I meant dark only
Dark

And a voice from another room heard not heard
An explanation of something I should think
But moving on as News people say
We hear the distant vehicle with a purposing
Of sorts

And nearer out of sorts a startled cat with clearer explanations
Than the laugh that reassures
From the other room

And upstairs notebooks lying underbed
Incomprehensibly heavy with the tortuous oughts

Of ink.

Scotch at sundown.  Good cat on the chair,
And then green light I know
will be there for me in the bedroom.  Cars
And self mocking subjects with the fumes of sleep
not far away.  Paradoxically I think another drink will just allow the bottom of the page to become reachable...

What do the dots mean?  
“You know We know It's possible.  And maybe you can participate in this thought too.”  

Not wanting to carry on like a stony upward path near moors near Langsett.  
With a forgiving friend that runs as well.  
But not too well for me to fall behind in the chat chat chat of miles to go before I drink and miles to go before I drink....

A piece of bread to soak up spirits to their full height?
Not quite

And I'm always frowning always at the paper and at you
I do not mean to

You see?

The ****** rhymes they get in without me wanting (and also wanting)
The clever trite score of sound like sugar hit that ashames me after
Drinking down the self congratulation of a chime of words.


And there it is
The stone of end at the top and the last thing we might see

Before descent to all the rivers and the ferns and...

And words

I wish you could be here now
Waiting for the winter dawn
-too early yet -

Outside - cold black and thin treed
Hard by the Dark River

But here the glow touches each to each

You rise to draw a curtain slowly
- night clothes open softly to the screen -
And I am briefly jealous of Peter Mandleson.

And yet – I fear sometimes you do not know it
And then yet – maybe in the forgiving light of some days
Of some soft evenings
You do -
When the lilt and sway of easy nothing finds balance at the heart
Of everything
And all is possible, and time is kind.


2.
And then - a 'when',and an 'if', and a shattering of hard light
through cold glass, and
Out again
To weave another self - become the one that holds the stuff of others
and does the stuff
Out there.

- No one else to cope or conquer
All the 'I's' rest on you - you cannot rest.
- In the fever of the day's words and words and words....
While you – slightly apart even here,
Strive for stillness
And the steady smiling gaze that lights up
The unspoken words
Between.

3.
The wonder of it all
Searching out and up:
With much found already
Your blood and soul knowing, moving upwards through
The memories of silly shoves of playground fears and falls
Lighting them from within.
The Opening Flower - open hands and eyes for others
Others turning to look...

Gently walking with them pacing out their lives
They touch the lilt and lift
Of you.

You will give back their profound dance to their mind and eyes.
The Peripheral Vision – the little moving light that says –
listen to me
listen to me
This is your birthright -
Quietly saying – you are all power to embrace


And part

To wander in byways for all the simple certainties of drifting in the
Now:
All there is...

Now - To reach up wide and far through the thin bars
Feeling warm rain and hope and light.
The beautiful graceful stem and leafing of the logic:
Tell me who you are.

....

Maybe,

In the end,

“Drifting is an important value”

For you

Too!



- For S.
Christmas 2008

Herding flatly in the heat of streets
They rise up
Expecting rights and comfort all around.
But there is none.

Well, as a matter of fact there is some
(Thanks to Matt Cook we can all be more honest now
In poems.  Gear-changing - so much fun)

For instance, take 1 - 4 above.  
It's about groups of people in cafes and bars
In a hot evening city.  I wasn't feeling
Like Joining In.
So,
They were all irritating gits in my eyes
All condemned therefore in writing about it.
Then and afterwards
They were sad desperate zombies, so they were
All looking for a fix of pleasure, distraction, coin
Of their toil exchanging misery for oblivion and so

Doomed
Doomed
Doomed.  

But they weren't really
Of course.

I expect many of them had a truly great time.
Staggering laughter, blow-out fun, exuberance
Of release - and dancing through the
Smoke and din and drink and clashing colours, scents.

Maybe in midst someone of special poise  
Looked felt words across that bar that
Roared and rocked them far apart.  
Then laser quiet unites:
A magic channel switching out the noise.
Later they loved.
It tasted good and lasted.

Years, children, garden, wins,
Losses, and still some Mayhem Friends -
'Remember that night, and the chap
With the crash hat
Who just stood and looked?

I wonder what happened

To him?'

These lines these words are coming home, coming home.  
Playful, light with nothing to forgive
Or do
Really

But this is real.
This is all my world now...
Are they for me are they for you?

Me I guess
But they may reach
You

I still lie. Words are so easy to lie with.

But to truth with words you first have to
Lie with them.
Love them
Have intimate surprising knowledge of them
(because intimacy is always surprising)

Is this what makes intimacy so scary for some?

In touching you
With words or eyes or soft nails between

We might touch off a sudden flash or crack
Of powder dry for years.