collector of iron and all things metal
carried without slightest lament
by
beautiful brown-and-white nag with overflowing mane
clip-clops up and down
every road there is
and even beyond



1.
little doubt exists
of fine ingenuity
of said collector
who wastes no moment nor chance
to scour every luck’s platform
with sharp intuition and assiduous eyes
          an old stove with absent racks
          a precious copper geyser gutted with no fittings
          pine-planks discarded due to skew-cuts
          aluminium pipes abandoned with twisted ends
          old screws with rusty whorls from an recently bucket-kicked geezer’s garage
          parts of a car . . . an ****** gearbox and ancient exhausts
heaps of junk and piles of crap clang on cart
a veritable dump in some eyes but those of
the cool collector who takes all the sweepings in gracious stride
cast-off penalties and chaffs of society’s unwanted

2.
once a week on Saturdays
these wares are parked near the parking lot
for all to approach
to see
a fine spread of legend and lore
     bric-à-brac and books to browse
so many things of interest
     magazines and manuals with miscellany-topics under the sun
     hipflasks of silver and clear-cut carafes
     unused greeting-cards with dressed-up paper-dolls
     rare literature well-thumbed with care
and things you’d sure chuck out
mechanical entrails and shiny things
yet
quite a spectacle to behold
costing a joke but for you
a fraction of today's ha'penny

3.
nobody knows why the quiet collector takes the time of day
to re-inforce that fixture-presence
a kindly soul with half-smile always flirting round the lips
and greets with old-century warmth o'er book-edge, markedly a poem-spine
walking closer to peep curiosity around
relaxed eyes let one be
          no compulsive sales-talk
          no eager-****** hopping
just sitting back in deep hiker’s green fold-up chair
easy posture and half-drooped eyes with soft drink close at hand

4.
the collector really watches all who pass
     who go by on their daily trails with rituals oft unchanged
     who fuss ever-plaintive over facetious deets like school-tasks
as they return their books long overdue while whistling smasher-hit tunes (never to be heard)
     who rush to catch an ever-noisy taxi with their own raucous guards
     who help heaving housewives cursing under breath climb on board
as their groceries groan and nearly drop from overladen plastic bags
     who ignore for now with studious intent the hobos on the pavement there
     who beg lost coins for empty-belly from the tattered purses in bosoms
while others cry out impatient at peripheral nuisances
     who act as indiscreet ‘car-guards’ ostensibly guarding cars, even with folk in it

yes, he watches
and observes with keen eyes yet never obvious
even those who saunter by
with pondering glance and walking stick
even as years have graciously touched their brow
he sees them *tut-tut the ******* on the wall
like stray-dogs in a pound

5.
once in an often while
this collector who loves a rediscovered hypothesis
to explore the myriad facets of humanity
does an odd turn now and then
when walking to the toilet at the local library
which has parked itself adjacent to this lot
drops a twenty-buck note near the side
and soon joyful sees the utter surprise
when tired high-school kids with sullen backpacks
do a double-take
espy their luck . . . whoo-hoo, look!
their gloomy cloaks of learning plain melts
they take off sure-footed and lighter of heart
and repair to the fish-and-chips shop
they share their vinegary ***** in a finger-licking circle
and amity strong-cemented in a cool memory
that they’d recall with fondness many years later
at their 20th school-reunion
and as grand-dads visiting a dying pal

pangs of hunger satisfied
and
not only by them


next time
that note will be dropped in the park nearby
where effete winos sleep their lives away
     who ken much and give not a care
     a kind long not recognised
educated derelicts debate on war-merits and erstwhile musicians play melodic arpeggios
sitting in the gentle arbour-shade of mutual acceptance
with chess-mad players
working out strategy in rapt blade-moves
which belie and scorn the forgotten titles to their name
along with Ph.D to boot

6.
when night-time hails - all grows still again
and settles, though just for a nibble of time
it’s pack-up time
the listening collector hears the owl-hoot’s call
and knows the time has come to rest a bit
     for when the morrow dawns
     all neatly packaged in a brand-new gift called day
it’s back on the road again
to observe once more
with trusted nag in tow
clip-clop . . . clip-CLOP

7.
and the collector is the one
the housewives invite with alacrity to Xmas-lunch
the taxi-drivers offer gifts of goodwill
the school-kids give their chips and last treats
the vagrants seek out to share a ciggie and sympa-chat
the grown men visit for esoteric slim-tomes and philosophical advice
the shopkeepers welcome reassuring presence of

yes, this quiet collector
is the inadvertent guest
to shores of the lonely
the too-busy and life-ridden folk
who seek a sweet smile
just once in a while
in a world
where compassion is not justified by its deep-touches of poverty





no fruitless labour
in one who sees little detriment
but senses the full value of
every item’s moment in vanilla-time
while trying always
to catch
the finest one can be


supreme harvest, indeed
yes :)
love . . . love . . . love . . .





S T, 1 September

the tape spins . . . in over-reel
haphazard lines in convulsed black



1.
Clear and still lake . . .                                                                  ­    hardly a ripple on the blue matter
Step to water’s edge . . .                                                                ­   hesitant eyes briefly touch the surface
Heel lifts into the arch of civilisations hanging . . .                      humming inside-tunes
Foot pendulous and . . . toes dipping                                             aching-slow sink in
clean and      . . .  s u b m e r g e d
Then rising, a single drop escapes . . . sweet                                 h   e    a    l


2.
Step forward . . . into the void . . . it has been waiting . . .               sacrosanct

the flourish . . . to reach . . . constant  . . .                                            oh, it is here
finally

( . . . )


this is
the truest understanding
to me . . . undeniable life-spring*




S T, 29 Augmented 2013

got.an.appointment.to.keep
can’t.be.late.at.all
got.an.appointmen­t.to.keep


Cycling hard in the taciturn rain
In the English countryside
Feeding  chunks *rassis to hissing Eton-swans

Pitch-black hot tar inside
Running relentless along the vacuous side-halls
Carrying mercy on three-legged cur

Crying for Odin . . .  leaving soon
Won’t make it down that clockwork-stairs
And can’t show up late for its own demise-appointment


taking.flight.to.a.never.portion
of
the.eve­r.furious.wanderer

(no latecomers allowed)

to.keep.that.appointment
to.never.go
crying.for.Odin

­
s t        27 aug

an inscription on the side of the door
that I didn't see
upon entering


I like visiting you when you spit real
you hop from moon to moon
and never tire of handing out
your remarkable brand of smiles
as you go


you see
the thing is, you
are probably the most rare
of humans
I've ever known
you're the kind of person
I didn't realise it till now
I've always been on subconscious search for
no longer bereft of beauty
I am



so many sides
and so much fire
sometimes, it's hard
to keep pace
with mental fireworks

out on rocky shores
some sweets can cut the tongue
my feet edge tentative
over uneven edges
and move forward
slowly


there's a golden child in a tunic
who walks miles to learn of this wonderful world
which dips its ever-pen into the inkwell-head
of innocence
polluting the sweet waters there
changing for all time
the complexion of healing time

there's always hope in the smile of a child
thank heavens for the eyes of children
yet, look what we do...


yes, he's walking to his next lesson
if he only knew what waits
when he grows up
something inside will die
something so beautiful and deeply precious
will simply perish

when we grow up, we actually die
innocence is replaced by blasé crap

young girls are advised to carry
silver spoons hid in drawers
to spark their chaperoned freedom
sleeping families never wake
as silent clouds settle insidious
placed by forces
no cherub wants to meet
the wicked are pardoned by the blind
and yet another child is trapped
and Babel's tower lives once more

the world is such
we **** our own
for the merest pretext

yet hope must live
keep candle of humanity lit


taking the time to find
that beautiful inscription
a prayer of infinite beauty
follow the steps to your heart
love comes
to light*




S T,            25th augs