Wouldn’t it be better to be deconstructed
blow apart those held-together pieces

seen as all those same parts,
spent of needs and dependency
each is worth its own weight,
bringing their gift to the whole

wouldn’t they make sense on their own,
more than all the sense I make together?

Everything has its place, and time. Some things, sometimes,
don’t want to be put away, they want to be visible and present,
so that when you are ready to notice them they will be there,
waiting patiently for your awareness.

The unwashed teacup is simply resting, until such time
as you offer the caress of your hands in a warm bath
of cleansing. There is no judgement from the cup, just
patience and contentment in its wholeness.

The open magazine, folded back on itself since
last February, has merely been spending time catching up
on missed readings, enjoying the imprint page and readers’ selfies
that are generally not given the time.

The ***** laundry on the tiled bathroom floor has a
real opportunity to co-mingle in ways
that a sorted chest of drawers or double-rack hang space
would never allow—so they too are grateful.

All waits patiently until such time as you,
sometimes gradually, sometimes suddenly,
are unburdened enough, attentive enough,
accepting enough, to respect each thing in turn,
and help each to find its place with you.

All these negative thoughts have a lasting effect,

can the same be said for positives? Is it any wonder

the self-help industry is booming, the power of

positive thinking, the creation of new neural pathways

that we can walk, hand-in-hand, to our deaths

two negatives don’t make a positive

but they can make a short-circuit, bypass a whole

section of brain, invert it and turn it on myself—

“you’ll never know. Hah!”

When did this happen? What was the turning point,

the one I didn’t notice, the moment the potential flicked from

positive to negative? Perhaps it coincided with the toast

popping up from its slot, a subtle but sudden noise that

masked the trip of my internal psyche switch

so by the time I reached for the the crust—

far darker than usual, although not quite burnt,

my inattention has led to the 

Catastrophe of singed sourdough,  

casting a pall over breakfast

And it’s all my fault. No other explanation, even the

slightest error haunts me—he, magically having borne

these butterfly wings, whose flutter can upset the peace talks

on the other side of the world. Well, that's a bonus, isn't it?

To have that power after all these months out of control.

Taking control, he looked at himself in the mirror,  
his eyes tracing the lines and hairs and circles.

He sat and gazed out the window for a time, noticed the street signs and the birds.

He listened to the noises coming past the open door
He stood and walked through the day until he sat, on a bus,  
or next to a tree, or beside a homeless woman.  
He chose not to act or speak but simply to be.

He found a quiet place to wonder  
how the tips of his fingers could move a pencil with such minute rhythm  
above a line of awareness, connecting him to everyone  
who ever read  
or died.

He travelled in and out of consciousness, to the stars and back,  
and all his journeys made experiences,  
but his awareness made wisdom.

He thought of love, and this thought became  
his breath, and the sky,  
and the day ahead was a clean sheet to write upon,  
to be continued,  
to start for the first time.

We are the poets of your narrative
Come to take you again on your necessary journey
Through a landscape of overbearing and darkness
Steep rocky pathways and failing bridges where
there may be a glimmer of light we shine, like a torch lit by fear
Through the fallacious delusions and salacious contusions
you will follow us inevitably, because
You have not yet understood that you can stay
seated, under the tree of wisdom you planted aeons ago
before we came and saw you, looking for all the world
like you needed a story much bigger than
That simplistic dream you had
of your own life.
But what could we say, other than Yes, we will lend you all our hours and abundance of adjectives and bandages.
You seemed so lonely to us—the poets of your narrative—
sitting there, with just your small verb to be.

How can I tell you  
that what I had is gone?

if all these consonants and vowels  
put flesh on the bones of my thought
  
then how do I express less  
in the substance of syllables?

Surely there can be no way but silence  
to say what you are now

No noise nor rhyme
no vowel nor diphthong,
no metre at last  
no making of sense

no prose, no poem,  
not the heresy of song  
not an imperfect past  
no future, tense

I cannot rephrase you  
to what you are not

I can only reckon,
only wonder,

that what I had is gone.

Nothing washes tears away but more tears  
nothing bruises pain away but more blood.

And one day the clouds will part,  
perhaps with an even smaller patch of blue  
than my heart has become

And when that sunlight breaks,  
will I be ready?

Will I have packed my lunch and  
handkerchief and  
notebook  
again, prepared  
to slip through that opened gate  
and into my neighbour's yard.