PROLOGUE
               Hyde Park weekend of politics and pop,
Geldof’s gang of divas and mad hatters;
Sergeant Pepper only one heart beating,
resurrected by a once dead Beatle.
The ******, Queen and Irish juggernauts;
The Entertainer and dead bands
re-jigged for the sake of humanity.
   The almighty single named entities
all out for Africa and people power.
Olympics in the bag, a Waterloo
of celebrations in the street that night
Leaping and whooping in sheer delight
Nelson rocking in Trafalgar Square
The promised computer wonderlands
rising from the poisoned dead heart wasteland;
derelict, deserted, still festering.
The Brave Tomorrow in a world of hate.
The flame will be lit, magic rings aloft
and harmony will be our middle name.

On the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl;
the ‘war on terror’ just a tattered trope
drained and exhausted and put out of sight
in a dark corner of a darker shelf.
A power surge the first lie of the day.
Savagely woken from our pleasant dream
al Qa’ida opens up a new franchise
and a new frontier for terror to prowl.

               Howling sirens shatter morning’s progress
Hysterical screech of ambulances
and police cars trying to grip the road.
The oppressive drone of helicopters
gathering like the Furies in the sky;
Blair’s hubris is acknowledged by the gods.
Without warning the deadly game begins.

The Leviathan state machinery,
certain of its strength and authority,
with sheer balletic co-ordination,
steadies itself for a fine performance.
The new citizen army in ‘day glow’
take up their ‘Support Official’ roles,
like air raid wardens in the last big show;
feisty  yet firm, delivering every line
deep voiced and clearly to the whole theatre.
On cue, the Police fan out through Bloomsbury
clearing every emergency exit,
arresting and handcuffing surly streets,
locking down this ancient river city.
Fetching in fluorescent green costuming,
the old Bill nimbly Tangos and Foxtrots
the airways, Oscar, Charlie and Yankee
quickly reply with grid reference Echo;
Whiskey, Sierra, Quebec, November,
beam out from New Scotland Yard,
staccato, nearly lost in static space.
      
              LIVERPOOL STREET STATION
8.51 a.m. Circle Line

Shehezad Tanweer was born in England.
A migrant’s child of hope and better life,
dreaming of his future from his birth.
Only twenty two short years on this earth.
In a madrassah, Lahore, Pakistan,
he spent twelve weeks reading and rote learning
verses chosen from the sacred text.
Chanting the syllables, hour after hour,
swaying back and forth with the word rhythm,
like an underground train rocking the rails,
as it weaves its way beneath the world,
in turning tunnels in the dead of night.

Teve Talevski had a meeting
across the river, he knew he’d be late.
**** trains they do it to you every time.
But something odd happened while he waited
A taut-limbed young woman sashayed past him
in a forget-me-not blue dress of silk.
She rustled on the platform as she turned.
She turned to him and smiled, and he smiled back.
Stale tunnel air pushed along in the rush
of the train arriving in the station.
He found a seat and watched her from afar.
Opened his paper for distraction’s sake
Olympic win exciting like the smile.

Train heading southwest under Whitechapel.
Deafening blast, rushing sound blast, bright flash
of golden light, flying glass and debris
Twisted people thrown to ground, darkness;
the dreadful silent second in blackness.
The stench of human flesh and gunpowder,
burning rubber and fiery acrid smoke.
Screaming bone bare pain, blood-drenched tearing pain.
Pitiful weeping, begging for a god
to come, someone to come, and help them out.

Teve pushes off a dead weighted man.
He stands unsteady trying to balance.
Railway staff with torches, moving spotlights
**** and jolt, catching still life scenery,
lighting the exit in gloomy dimness.
They file down the track to Aldgate Station,
Teve passes the sardine can carriage
torn apart by a fierce hungry giant.
Through the dust, four lifeless bodies take shape
and disappear again in drifting smoke.
It’s only later, when safe above ground,
Teve looks around and starts to wonder
where his blue epiphany girl has gone.

                 KINGS CROSS STATION
8.56 a.m. Piccadilly Line

Many named Lyndsey Germaine, Jamaican,
living with his wife and child in Aylesbury,
laying low, never visited the Mosque.   
                Buckinghamshire bomber known as Jamal,
clean shaven, wearing normal western clothes,
annoyed his neighbours with loud music.
Samantha-wife converted and renamed,
Sherafiyah and took to wearing black.
Devout in that jet black shalmar kameez.
Loving father cradled close his daughter
Caressed her cheek and held her tiny hand
He wondered what the future held for her.

Station of the lost and homeless people,
where you can buy anything at a price.
A place where a face can be lost forever;
where the future’s as real as faded dreams.
Below the mainline trains, deep underground
Piccadilly lines cross the River Thames
Cram-packed, shoulder to shoulder and standing,
the train heading southward for Russell Square,
barely pulls away from Kings Cross Station,
when Arash Kazerouni hears the bang,
‘Almighty bang’ before everything stopped.
Twenty six hearts stopped beating that moment.
But glass flew apart in a shattering wave,
followed by a  huge whoosh of smoky soot.
Panic raced down the line with ice fingers
touching and tagging the living with fear.
Spine chiller blanching faces white with shock.

Gracia Hormigos, a housekeeper,
thought, I am being electrocuted.
Her body was shaking, it seemed her mind
was in free fall, no safety cord to pull,
just disconnected, so she looked around,
saw the man next to her had no right leg,
a shattered shard of bone and gouts of  blood,
Where was the rest of his leg and his foot ?

Level headed ones with serious voices
spoke over the screaming and the sobbing;
Titanic lifeboat voices giving orders;
Iceberg cool voices of reassurance;
We’re stoical British bulldog voices
that organize the mayhem and chaos
into meaty chunks of jobs to be done.
Clear air required - break the windows now;
Lines could be live - so we stay where we are;
Help will be here shortly - try to stay calm.

John, Mark and Emma introduce themselves
They never usually speak underground,
averting your gaze, tube train etiquette.
Disaster has its opportunities;
Try the new mobile, take a photograph;
Ring your Mum and Dad, ****** battery’s flat;
My network’s down; my phone light’s still working
Useful to see the way, step carefully.

   Fiona asks, ‘Am I dreaming all this?’
A shrieking man answers her, “I’m dying!”
Hammered glass finally breaks, fresher air;
too late for the man in the front carriage.
London Transport staff in yellow jackets
start an orderly evacuation
The mobile phones held up to light the way.
Only nineteen minutes in a lifetime.
  
EDGEWARE ROAD STATION
9.17 a.m. Circle Line

               Mohammed Sadique Khan, the oldest one.
Perhaps the leader, at least a mentor.
Yorkshire man born, married with a daughter
Gently spoken man, endlessly patient,
worked in the Hamara, Lodge Lane, Leeds,
Council-funded, multi-faith youth Centre;
and the local Primary school, in Beeston.
No-one could believe this of  Mr Khan;
well educated, caring and very kind
Where did he hide his secret other life  ?

Wise enough to wait for the second train.
Two for the price of one, a real bargain.
Westbound second carriage is blown away,
a commuter blasted from the platform,
hurled under the wheels of the east bound train.
Moon Crater holes, the walls pitted and pocked;
a sparse dark-side landscape with black, black air.
The ripped and shredded metal bursts free
like a surprising party popper;
Steel curlicues corkscrew through wood and glass.
Mass is made atomic in the closed space.
Roasting meat and Auschwitzed cremation stench
saturates the already murky air.              
Our human kindling feeds the greedy fire;
Heads alight like medieval torches;
Fiery liquid skin drops from the faceless;
Punk afro hair is cauterised and singed.  
Heat intensity, like a wayward iron,
scorches clothes, fuses fibres together.
Seven people escape this inferno;
many die in later days, badly burned,
and everyone there will live a scarred life.

               TAVISTOCK ROAD
9.47 a.m. Number 30 Bus  

Hasib Hussain migrant son, English born
barely an adult, loved by his mother;
reported him missing later that night.
Police typed his description in the file
and matched his clothes to fragments from the scene.
A hapless victim or vicious bomber ?
Child of the ‘Ummah’ waging deadly war.
Seventy two black eyed virgins waiting
in jihadist paradise just for you.

Red double-decker bus, number thirty,
going from Hackney Wick to Marble Arch;
stuck in traffic, diversions everywhere.
Driver pulls up next to a tree lined square;
the Parking Inspector, Ade Soji,
tells the driver he’s in Tavistock Road,
British Museum nearby and the Square.
A place of peace and quiet reflection;
the sad history of war is remembered;
symbols to make us never forget death;
Cherry Tree from Hiroshima, Japan;
Holocaust Memorial for Jewish dead;
sturdy statue of  Mahatma Gandhi.
Peaceful resistance that drove the Lion out.
Freedom for India but death for him.

Sudden sonic boom, bus roof tears apart,
seats erupt with volcanic force upward,
hot larva of blood and tissue rains down.
Bloodied road becomes a charnel-house scene;
disembodied limbs among the wreckage,
headless corpses; sinews, muscles and bone.
Buildings spattered and smeared with human paint
Impressionist daubs, blood red like the bus.

Jasmine Gardiner, running late for work;
all trains were cancelled from Euston Station;  
she headed for the square, to catch the bus.
It drove straight past her standing at the stop;
before she could curse aloud - Kaboom !
Instinctively she ran, ran for her life.
Umbrella shield from the shower of gore.

On the lower deck, two Aussies squeezed in;
Catherine Klestov was standing in the aisle,
floored by the bomb, suffered cuts and bruises
She limped to Islington two days later.
Louise Barry was reading the paper,
she was ‘****-scared’ by the explosion;
she crawled out of the remnants of the bus,
broken and burned, she lay flat on the road,
the world of sound had gone, ear drums had burst;
she lay there drowsy, quiet, looking up
and amazingly the sky was still there.

Sam Ly, Vietnamese Australian,
One of the boat people once welcomed here.
A refugee, held in his mother’s arms,
she died of cancer, before he was three.
Hi Ly struggled to raise his son alone;
a tough life, inner city high rise flats.
Education the smart migrant’s revenge,
Monash Uni and an IT degree.
Lucky Sam, perfect job of a lifetime;
in London, with his one love, Mandy Ha,
Life going great until that fateful day;
on the seventh day of the seventh month,
Festival of the skilful Weaving girl.

Three other Aussies on that ****** bus;
no serious physical injuries,
Sam’s luck ran out, in choosing where to sit.
His neck was broken, could not breath alone;
his head smashed and crushed, fractured bones and burns
Wrapped in a cocoon of coma safe
This broken figure lying on white sheets
in an English Intensive Care Unit
did not seem like Hi Ly’s beloved son;
but he sat by Sam’s bed in disbelief,
seven days and seven nights of struggle,
until the final hour, when it was done.

In the pit of our stomach we all knew,
but we kept on deep breathing and hoping
this nauseous reality would pass.
The weary inevitability
of horrific disasters such as these.
Strangely familiar like an old newsreel
Black and white, it happened long ago.
But its happening now right before our eyes
satellite pictures beam and bounce the globe.
Twelve thousand miles we watch the story
Plot unfolds rapidly, chapters emerge
We know the places names of this narrative.
  
It is all subterranean, hidden
from the curious, voyeuristic gaze,
Until the icon bus, we are hopeful
This public spectacle is above ground
We can see the force that mangled the bus,
fury that tore people apart limb by limb
Now we can imagine a bomb below,
far below, people trapped, fiery hell;
fighting to breathe each breath in tunnelled tombs.

Herded from the blast they are strangely calm,
obedient, shuffling this way and that.
Blood-streaked, sooty and dishevelled they come.
Out from the choking darkness far below
Dazzled by the brightness of the morning
of a day they feared might be their last.
They have breathed deeply of Kurtz’s horror.
Sights and sounds unimaginable before
will haunt their waking hours for many years;
a lifetime of nightmares in the making.
They trudge like weary soldiers from the Somme
already see the world with older eyes.

On the surface, they find a world where life
simply goes on as before, unmindful.
Cyclist couriers still defy road laws,
sprint racing again in Le Tour de France;
beer-gutted, real men are loading lorries;
lunch time sandwiches are made as usual,
sold and eaten at desks and in the street.
Roadside cafes sell lots of hot sweet tea.
The Umbrella stand soon does brisk business.
Sign writers' hands, still steady, paint the sign.
The summer blooms are watered in the park.
A ***** stretches on the bench and wakes up,
he folds and stows his newspaper blankets;
mouth dry,  he sips water at the fountain.
A lady scoops up her black poodle’s ****.
A young couple argues over nothing.
Betting shops are full of people losing
money and dreaming of a trifecta.
Martin’s still smoking despite the patches.
There’s a rush on Brandy in nearby pubs
Retired gardener dead heads his flowers
and picks a lettuce for the evening meal

Fifty six minutes from start to finish.
Perfectly orchestrated performance.
Rush hour co-ordination excellent.
Maximum devastation was ensured.
Cruel, merciless killing so coldly done.
Fine detail in the maiming and damage.

A REVIEW

Well activated practical response.
Rehearsals really paid off on the day.
Brilliant touch with bus transport for victims;
Space blankets well deployed for shock effect;
Dramatic improv by Paramedics;
Nurses, medicos and casualty staff
showed great technical E.R. Skills - Bravo !
Plenty of pizzazz and dash as always
from the nifty, London Ambo drivers;
Old fashioned know-how from the Fire fighters
in hosing down the fireworks underground.
Dangerous rescues were undertaken,
accomplished with buckets of common sense.
And what can one say about those Bobbies,
jolly good show, the lips unquivering
and universally stiff, no mean feat
in this Premiere season tear-jerker.
Nail-bitingly brittle, but a smash-hit
Poignant misery and stoic suffering,
fortitude, forbearance and lots of grit
Altogether was quite tickety boo.



NOTES ON THE POEM

Liverpool Street Station

A Circle Line train from Moorgate with six carriages and a capacity of 1272 passengers [ 192 seated; 1080 standing]. 7 dead on the first day.

Southbound, destination Aldgate. Explosion occurs midway between Liverpool Street and Aldgate.

Shehezad Tanweer was reported to have ‘never been political’ by a friend who played cricket with him 10 days before the bombing

Teve Talevski is a real person and I have elaborated a little on reports in the press. He runs a coffee shop in North London.

At the time of writing the fate of the blue dress lady is not known

Kings Cross Station

A Piccadilly Line train with six carriages and a capacity of 1238 passengers [272 seated; 966 standing]. 21 dead on first day.

Southbound, destination Russell Square. Explosion occurs mi

Maybe men labored under a yellow sky
bent under barley sheaves they’d cut,
returned behind limestone walls and leaned
to splash water on each other at the well.

You can see its crumbling curve today, in one
city as old when Cheops' pyramid was built
as pyramids are to us right now.  
Jericho, not so far away from Egypt and,

our archaeologists tell us, likely really didn’t hear
the blare of Joshua’s trumpets shuddering down
old Canaan-cursed by-Noah, coaxing walls
to shudder, teeter, list from Israelite raids.

You see one barley-bearer shaking dry,
descend  stair-tunnels to his flat to kneel
before his hungry daughter, hungry wife,
waiting for evening’s barley bread to cool.

He joins as they resume their business of the day
to gently set the cowrie eyes in Grandma’s face,
two priests removed the rest of her last year,
but left the precious head to decompose at home
scented in the wall with sweet Netufian herbs,

And now the family gathers near small fire,
desert nightbreeze filtering through the cracks
tenderly to soften Mother’s bony head
with daubs of plaster re-create her nose,

and gaping eye sockets, softening too
those black orbits with white plaster.
Slowly her death’s head touched tenderly
by younger finger tips becomes
something like a human head again,

If not quite living, cowrie shells complete
this vision of a vacant queenly stare
befits a family shrine. When things are done,
small granddaughter now squeals with delight
her own dark eyes reflect the fire-light.

A script for birth - an new revival,
libelled breaks, swollen structure,
a cupboard full of accidentals,
daubs this paragon with stucco:

Glowsticks prance on leveled stair,
canvas origami pads Negeb:
Counterculture's been declared!
'Metropolis' left in riverbed.

A crypt where all is fairly loose;
—deepened, glottal, breathened, size—
Saddled with this torment, you!
—ugly glamour pangyrized—

There's a lot more to fashion,
and a lot more, to forge;
Nothing keeps me in *******,
that would be too awkward.

Men with weak hearts
Can still love and love well,
Often better than the rest.
That strength is betrayed in
The ability to shed tears
Where other men shed blood.
They may write poems, music,
Or paint—it does not matter if
These are masterpieces or daubs,
Forgotten pieces of passion
Someday only recalled by those
Who loved the artist as well as the man.
Their power to change lives is not
In their expression, but devotion
To the people around them.
When artists, leaders and philosophers
Are forgotten too, these men are
Remembered for their power to feel
What others do not.
To them, beauty is ever-present
And love persists in the face of
Neglect, hardship and pain.
They can gaze at a field of flowers
And feel far more than most men who
Write a symphony.
They can look at the morning sun
And love it each day, for their
Days, they know, are uncertain,
As are day lilies who flame and die.
And yet they never complain,
For they are loved as others
Are not, by wives, children and friends.
To them, one piece of daylight is a gift,
While, to the grasping, selfish and bitter,
A century is not enough.
The weak-hearted protect even as they need protection.
And they labour, since the ones they love
Are weaker, even than they.
And deep in the night,
As their own hearts tremble,
They may awake and watch
To be sure that she still breathes
And that their children are safe
Even from bad dreams.
Though not faultless, those they love
Can always be sure of them.
They would sacrifice themselves
Just to know their families will thrive.
And the sacrifice may last
A lifetime and the weak heart
Becomes weaker.
Yet in the end and after,
They are immortal;
Living on in others’ hearts

He gave a picture exhibition,
Hiring a little empty shop.
Above its window: FREE ADMISSION
Cajoled the passers-by to stop;
Just to admire - no need to purchase,
Although his price might have been low:
But no proud artist ever urges
Potential buyers at his show.

Of course he badly needed money,
But more he needed moral aid.
Some people thought his pictures funny,
Too ultra-modern, I'm afraid.
His painting was experimental,
Which no poor artist can afford-
That is, if he would pay the rental
And guarantee his roof and board.

And so some came and saw and sniggered,
And some a puzzled brow would crease;
And some objected: "Well, I'm jiggered!"
What price Picasso and Matisse?
The artist sensitively quivered,
And stifled many a bitter sigh,
But day by day his hopes were shivered
For no one ever sought to buy.

And then he had a brilliant notion:
Half of his daubs he labeled: SOLD.
And lo! he viewed with queer emotion
A public keen and far from cold.
Then (strange it is beyond the telling),
He saw the people round him press:
His paintings went - they still are selling...
Well, nothing succeeds like success.

See the golden orb,
Sunrise/sunset, it daubs,
The Earth goes round and round,
Sunlight does abound,
Our source of life is found,
Behold the golden orb,
Sunrise/sunset it does daub...

.
..
...

With Crappó hated by the throng
young York decided to be strong
and told the Log 'you don't  belong'
and silenced him neigh three months long.

The corpse of Crappó lay unsung
amidst the muck of maggot mung.
Adoring words that Crappó flung
brings forth Thee Artiste from the dung.

This ballad now recalls to mind
Log's crummy comments, dull or spined,
a dilettante now much maligned,
the holey scourge of all mankind…

The only question left to face
'ts whether Thee will share Log's place
within the ashes of disgrace
adorning demons' fireplace.

*******

THEE BALLAD of LOGBRAIN CRAPPó
      
Prelude
The lord above returns to earth
descending as an afterbirth
and prattles of his paltry worth
in sluggish lines devoid of mirth.

In tedium the angels sighed
and cast his sorry soul aside,
commanding world and he collide
by grace… and gravity complied.

The earth is now a poorer place
defiled with icons of his face
adorning doggerel disgrace.
With character? No, not a trace.


LOGBRAIN CRAPPó'S TALE

His day of birth! A cat meowed?
With nary but a fig endowed
his mama gasped, then laughed aloud
and cast her sin upon a cloud.

Rejected at his mama's gate
he felt his ego desiccate,
wax paranoid and fill  with hate,
his self-esteem disintegrate.

At last the cloud came floating by
and caught an ancient angel's eye.
With pity for the puny guy
she boosted him beyond the sky.

Denied the milk at mama's ****
his nourishment was incomplete
except for jam on Golden street
where angels scrape their moldy feet.

Beholding mortals down below
he ventured into vertigo
and felt his feeble ego grow
beneath a chocolate cheerio.

With halo (brown although it be)
he rose above the holey sea.
"The ruler of the angels, me!"
became his favorite fantasy.

While looking down his nose at them
(upon his head a diadem)
he framed his face in foggy phlegm
and claimed he came from Bethlehem.

He then could hear the angels trill
"Just stop, because you're mortal still,
and even then you're lacking skill
except to serve the swine their swill" .

While scribbling lines in lethargy,
he foamed and drooled "supremacy,
preeminence" delusively…
unbearable monotony .

And with a visage woebegone
he scribbled trash till well past dawn
not worth the paper written on
and thus he made the angels yawn.

At last the angels felt dismay
and chose to act without delay…
with nothing but a negligee
he landed in an alleyway .

Since then he's never ceased to whine
"Please worship I, I am divine,
the lord of those who worship swine".
He's pricky as a porcupine.

Well, back on earth since Saturday,
he daubs his face in disarray
with soul patch stripe and black beret
and prances like a popinjay.

His mental age stays stuck at three.
And never reaching puberty
he scrawls some **** poetry
which seems to be his destiny.



LOGBRAIN CRAPPó'S EPITAPH

Log Crappó… well, he died in shame
cascading crap, his sole acclaim
accented ó, his only fame
with no one but himself to blame.

He finally made his last descent
inside the pit of punishment.
Now Satan's feeling discontent,
replaced as Prince of hell's torment.

On looking back, one must admit
he suffered from a lack of wit,
could never quite  get over it
so wrote his Masterpiece-of-****.


        CrE  aka  Trollminator

Splotches of sky,
daubs of fuschia and white idle above.
A cottage near the stream, our soft painted dream,
and ripples of blue.

Watercolors,
silver mist blurs the mountainside.
Rows of emerald pine, our hidden divine,
and beads of limpid dew.

Echoes of dawn,
a cool gale of the nearing spring.
Awash in teal blooms, our calm wooded womb,
and memories of you.

Evening daubs of ox-blood, pipe dottle, rust.
The lakeshore and the bonfire and the trees stammer,
Pleasure mutters, in turpentined and transparent voices
Like many invisible things, intermittently believed:

The taste of my darling's knees, her summer dress,
Her strong, fresh, friendly kisses,
The smell of garden dirt and fireworks,
Magnesium flare and  copper flare on the matte sky:
Like doubt and the lovely end of doubt.

Paul Anthony Hutchinson
www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
pahutchinson@icloud.com

At summertide, when heaven's airy sunn
Rules o'er the sky  -the glorious kingdom.
Why to yonder ridge biases a pensive eye?
It's unlit summit doesn't meld with the sky.
Why do those bluffs of dark cast so appear
Sweeter than this ol' countryside lying near?
Loftiness, it is,  lends magic to all the view,
And cloaks the cliff in its merry golden hue.
Thus, with relish, we do dally on these per se:
Certain joys of Life, guarantees we do survey,
Thus, from far away,  can each uncharted scene
More brightly be seen than all Fear, lest its seen?
And to every image, that Fear daubs in scary dun,
Express it into that Oblivion -shine on Airy Sunn.

Dear E--,

Sewing gold,
we walked
in the vacant
invisibilities.

In a hush-throated hall
we saw a Last Supper
of acrylic blocks,
breaks of the past.

Wooden masks
deviled the olive wall,
& we found tiles that
turned out our hands.

None of this sustained
you when the sun dropped
beams like pick-up-sticks,
aces of heat.

It didn't sustain you
when my friends
split like copper stills
across the breaded table.

The grand oil lamp
& the sea chant
became ash daubs
of noose memory

when I returned
to your dark room.
I'm sorry for every
thing I couldn't repair.

Every whorl
& loop in my hands
held you tight
as boas.

By the time I felt
your breath settle
into the delta of sleep
things had half-healed.

Still, I trembled
with sharp dreams.
In the morning,
I was yours again -

as I always was.
This is my apology.
Yours,
Evan

THE ESSENTIAL INGREDIENT

"Oh love is teasing
and love is pleasing. . ."

my sister sings to the cake
she is about to bake.

"And love is a pleasure
when first it's new. . ."

The rich Christmas mix
listens with all of its ingredients.

"Ahhhh but as love gets older
sure love gets colder. . ."

the brandy & fruit
weep into the bowl

"...and fades away like
the morning dew."

There is a lot of brandy in the mix.
There is a lot of brandy in sis.

Sad Irish folk songs
appear to be

the essential ingredient.

A pink and green balloon
clings to the ceiling

refusing to come down
by poker or by broom.

Takes refuge in the corner
just above the Christmas star.

My heart is breaking
with baking.

"I know my love
by his way of talking..."

flour in her hair
making her so ghostly

as if the original protagonist
came back from the grave

and sang her heart out

". ..and I know my love
by his eyes so blue..."

until the creambuttersugar
is all fluffy.

He voice adding a zing
of lemon peel.

At this stage
the eegs are beaten

". . .and if my love leaves me
what will I do?"

Slowly slowly whipped
to form peaks.

Now the cake is tipsy.
So - is sis.

I am drunk
on her singing.

My mind is in mourning
for all the love loved

and lost.

She daubs my nose and laughs.
I lick it off.

The tip of my tongue
a windscreen wiper!

And so the brandy fruit mixture
is folded in.

I can still taste
her singing.

Her cake the only cake
I could ever ate and oh

her almond icing!

These songs forever
Moira.

And still she sings
down all the years

and I love her versions
the best!

"...and a troubled mind sure
can know no rest

and still she cries bonny boys are few

and if my love leaves me
what will I do!"

have I heard a poem
as good as the trail nymph
recited,
speaking breathless of a soft pine needle
patch one might find near the peak of the hill
          where sun freckles alight playful
                 beds soft as a doe with fawn might desire?
Right up there, she silently said, past the curve of that creek
head up the root covered hill, just a few feet farther. I followed her gaze,
nearer than you imagine,
I did hear her,

saw her taut arm and lithe finger point me to there. Then she told me, you will find a poet there.

      in sunlight patches and growing lichen and moss covered wisdom
you will find him there.

He will bestow a poem to you, a wise and memorable poem, but, promise me to treasure it faithfully.
          
When I awoke,
there where I was led, on that peak of the hill
                  and the bed of needles amid
  many birds, scurrying animals, silent and speckled by daubs of sun and limb, I heard it.

Sunlit sailboats in daubs of orange and red
And mass-produced impressionist barn owls
In flight above an unsecured wire rack
Of greasy copies of Reader’s Digest

Behind the receptionist’s hole-in-the-wall
Children of the Cornbread centered in plastic
Jesus-frames grin against their will, freeze-posed
Among department-store studio trees

Across the walls some glued-on murals roam
(But at least this isn’t the funeral home)

THE ESSENTIAL INGREDIENT

"Oh love is teasing
and love is pleasing. . ."

my sister sings to the cake
she is about to bake.

"And love is a pleasure
when first it's new. . ."

The rich Christmas mix
listens with all of its ingredients.

"Ahhhh but as love gets older
sure love gets colder. . ."

the brandy & fruit
weep into the bowl

"...and fades away like
the morning dew."

There is a lot of brandy in the mix.
There is a lot of brandy in sis.

Sad Irish folk songs
appear to be

the essential ingredient.

A pink and green balloon
clings to the ceiling

refusing to come down
by poker or by broom.

Takes refuge in the corner
just above the Christmas star.

My heart is breaking
with baking.

"I know my love
by his way of talking..."

flour in her hair
making her so ghostly

as if the original protagonist
came back from the grave

and sang her heart out

". ..and I know my love
by his eyes so blue..."

until the creambuttersugar
is all fluffy.

He voice adding a zing
of lemon peel.

At this stage
the eggs are beaten

". . .and if my love leaves me
what will I do?"

Slowly slowly whipped
to form peaks.

Now the cake is tipsy.
So - is sis.

I am drunk
on her singing.

My mind is in mourning
for all the love loved

and lost.

She daubs my nose and laughs.
I lick it off.

The tip of my tongue
a windscreen wiper!

And so the brandy fruit mixture
is folded in.

I can still taste
her singing.

Her cake the only cake
I could ever ate and oh

her almond icing!

These songs forever
her.

And still she sings
down all the years

and I love her versions
the best!

"...and a troubled mind sure
can know no rest

and still she cries bonny boys are few

and if my love leaves me
what will I do!"

It's a fundamental law:
all matter emits radiation
(all of us even you right now)

& the energy level depends
on the temperature of the object
(inversely related to intensity).

This is black body radiation.
Here, in our meager summer rooms,
we have long infrared auras

(only lizards see them);
our atoms are gracefully aching away,
smeary leaking daubs in halo.

The hotter something is
(like that fling of sun up there)
the more energy it heaves away.

That molten starry tussle
is 10,000 degrees Fahrenheit
(& so we see it yellow-white) -

"But," you say, "what if something
is hotter than a star, what then?"
Something, you mean,

like the strange chemistry that burns
burns burns burns burns burns
in my brain on a Tuesday night

when remembering an autumn day
in a cemetery in Paris so many years back
(Chopin Morrison Abelard Heloise Wilde Piaf &c)

it was such a perfect day with her
(the synapses and relays are all
clicking clicking clicking clicking

with wild remembrance)...
Well, then (in theory)
I should be giving off ultraviolet light

at an almost infinite rate (wouldn't I?).
I don't know what it means
that I am here in the plush dark

quiet and quelled by thought
(except perhaps the catastrophic energy
is scrawling and etching me into oblivion).

THE ESSENTIAL INGREDIENT




"Oh love is teasing

and love is pleasing. . ."




my sister sings to the cake

she is about to bake.




"And love is a pleasure

when first it's new. . ."




The rich Christmas mix

listens with all of its ingredients.




"Ahhhh but as love gets older

sure love gets colder. . ."




the brandy & fruit

weep into the bowl




"...and fades away like

the morning dew."




There is a lot of brandy in the mix.

There is a lot of brandy in sis.




Sad Irish folk songs

appear to be




the essential ingredient.




A pink and green balloon

clings to the ceiling




refusing to come down

by poker or by broom.




Takes refuge in the corner

just above the Christmas star.




My heart is breaking

with baking.




"I know my love

by his way of talking..."




flour in her hair

making her so ghostly




as if the original protagonist

came back from the grave




and sang her heart out




". ..and I know my love

by his eyes so blue..."




until the creambuttersugar

is all fluffy.




He voice adding a zing

of lemon peel.




At this stage

the eegs are beaten




". . .and if my love leaves me

what will I do?"




Slowly slowly whipped

to form peaks.




Now the cake is tipsy.

So - is sis.




I am drunk

on her singing.




My mind is in mourning

for all the love loved




and lost.




She daubs my nose and laughs.

I lick it off.




The tip of my tongue

a windscreen wiper!




And so the brandy fruit mixture

is folded in.




I can still taste

her singing.




Her cake the only cake

I could ever ate and oh




her almond icing!




These songs forever

her.




And still she sings

down all the years




and I love her versions

the best!




"...and a troubled mind sure

can know no rest




and still she cries bonny boys are few




and if my love leaves me

what will I do!"

projection screens rumple,

like trans-seasonal auditoriums

exiting single file.

whereon

the taxidermy of leaves--watercolor

daubs in a children's book, whose

pages are yellowing.

half-torn dogears, peaking off with a

turn of story.

think the smuggery of branches giving

directions--until they snap.

as highborn winters gather to look down

on a piece of haggard surety.

as earths tone traceries...

veined with dishevelment of leaves.

as the backdraft of a dragon's breath

melts snowflakes on its tongues.

THE ESSENTIAL INGREDIENT

"Oh love is teasing
and love is pleasing. . ."

my sister sings to the cake
she is about to bake.

"And love is a pleasure
when first it's new. . ."

The rich Christmas mix
listens with all of its ingredients.

"Ahhhh but as love gets older
sure love gets colder. . ."

the brandy & fruit
weep into the bowl

"...and fades away like
the morning dew."

There is a lot of brandy in the mix.
There is a lot of brandy in sis.

Sad Irish folk songs
appear to be

the essential ingredient.

A pink and green balloon
clings to the ceiling

refusing to come down
by poker or by broom.

Takes refuge in the corner
just above the Christmas star.

My heart is breaking
with baking.

"I know my love
by his way of talking..."

flour in her hair
making her so ghostly

as if the original protagonist
came back from the grave

and sang her heart out

". ..and I know my love
by his eyes so blue..."

until the creambuttersugar
is all fluffy.

He voice adding a zing
of lemon peel.

At this stage
the eegs are beaten

". . .and if my love leaves me
what will I do?"

Slowly slowly whipped
to form peaks.

Now the cake is tipsy.
So - is sis.

I am drunk
on her singing.

My mind is in mourning
for all the love loved

and lost.

She daubs my nose and laughs.
I lick it off.

The tip of my tongue
a windscreen wiper!

And so the brandy fruit mixture
is folded in.

I can still taste
her singing.

Her cake the only cake
I could ever ate and oh

her almond icing!

These songs forever
her.

And still she sings
down all the years

and I love her versions
the best!

"...and a troubled mind sure
can know no rest

and still she cries bonny boys are few

and if my love leaves me
what will I do!"

THE ESSENTIAL INGREDIENT

"Oh love is teasing
and love is pleasing. . ."

my sister sings to the cake
she is about to bake.

"And love is a pleasure
when first it's new. . ."

The rich Christmas mix
listens with all of its ingredients.

"Ahhhh but as love gets older
sure love gets colder. . ."

the brandy & fruit
weep into the bowl

"...and fades away like
the morning dew."

There is a lot of brandy in the mix.
There is a lot of brandy in sis.

Sad Irish folk songs
appear to be

the essential ingredient.

A pink and green balloon
clings to the ceiling

refusing to come down
by poker or by broom.

Takes refuge in the corner
just above the Christmas star.

My heart is breaking
with baking.

"I know my love
by his way of talking..."

flour in her hair
making her so ghostly

as if the original protagonist
came back from the grave

and sang her heart out

". ..and I know my love
by his eyes so blue..."

until the creambuttersugar
is all fluffy.

He voice adding a zing
of lemon peel.

At this stage
the eggs are beaten

". . .and if my love leaves me
what will I do?"

Slowly slowly whipped
to form peaks.

Now the cake is tipsy.
So - is sis.

I am drunk
on her singing.

My mind is in mourning
for all the love loved

and lost.

She daubs my nose and laughs.
I lick it off.

The tip of my tongue
a windscreen wiper!

And so the brandy fruit mixture
is folded in.

I can still taste
her singing.

Her cake the only cake
I could ever ate and oh

her almond icing!

These songs forever
her.

And still she sings
down all the years

and I love her versions
the best!

"...and a troubled mind sure
can know no rest

and still she cries bonny boys are few

and if my love leaves me
what will I do!"

Men lie asleep on park benches,
and Ice-cream vendors wait patiently for customers,
and I see a tap with a dried throat.

Meanwhile a pinky girl arrives.
Joggles her dad,
daubs Ice-cream all over herself,
opens the tap to oblivion,
and gets drenched.

It was spring cleaning time,
so, out came the cabinet only
to discover what the original
wallpaper actually looked like.

A reflection of non activity
where spiders had woven
Jackson ******* mazes with
daubs if spotted fly carcasses.

The drawers, five tiers of them
were stiff with inactivity and
full of inconsequential papers
smelling of moth *****.

All four of the castors were
like old testicles hanging off
the legs but serving no other
purpose, not even decorative.

Now that its gone the blank
area is the only bright spot
in the room and a nice wood
fire in the hearth reflecting it.