A boy, aged about ten
Loved playing the flute.
He dreamed of flying to Mars
in a purple space suit.
He had funny ideas all the day long
But flying to space was his passion.
He wondered if the colour purple
on Mars would be top fashion.
He had written a tune
and it was called Purple and Red
Playing it when he awoke
till the time for his bed.
It had a catchy rhythm
Just right for space
It didn't matter one way or the other
to him in any case.
The town knew of his needs
and bought him a rocket.
Together with a designer purple suit
with a deep narrow pocket.
For his flute of course
to play amongst the stars.
He had got to rehearse his number
for when he got to Mars.

The fragile, the broken,
we are. The bruised, the hurting, we are.
The lonely, the open, we are.
The rusted, the maliced, we are.
The stained, the pained, we are.
The hopeful, the honest, we are.
Crimson red, under blood shed, we are.
The forgiven, so it's written.
Let it be.

To be one day performed in sign language*

Perhaps
You could call it
Music—
A gentle guitar
Solo,
Or even a piercing
Voice clear
And high.

Silence is a song.

I know
And you do too.

Well,
Perhaps I don't
As much as you would.

There is a cadence
To the way
Our pens
Twist and turn
Like my grandfather's
Heyday.

There is an art
To the way
Your fingers
Seem to curve
At the slightest
Twitch
Of your lips.

Your body's language
Is like an evergreen
Dance—
Eyes, hands, feet wide
Open to the
Rhythms of the world.

And what a stunning
Beat it drums.