Does the sun rise and scorn
All the dreams I think I saw?
Or does it care?

Does it want to help me bear
The loss of something I never had,
But through rose-coloured spectacles
I clearly saw?

Does it shine, or smirk
When it sees me pleading with the night
Not to go away, and begging all my dreams
To come with me into the day?


Are you light, or dark Sun?
Are you my tormentor,
Or my friend?
(Gerry Aldridge 2016)

My wounds bleed war paint and
there’s an air of mischief on your tongue.
When chaos propels itself on our sweet plans
we are reminded of our wavering energy to hiss past the unexpected.
An appetite for freedom can’t sustain starving artists.
I often imagine life as a black and white silent film.
Those rust-tinted spectacles stay concrete on the bridge of my nose,
Dancing giraffe-men on stilts boisterously
taunt the congressman on his crackberry,
ask him what he’s livin’ for.
Give me your half-drawn dreams to hide in, give me your blood.
Because mosquitoes never tire of kicking you when you’re at your lowest.
Give me your childhood ambitions and carefree summer nights, and
you’ve got guts, kid,
you’ve got guts,
to careen over rooftops in search of a paradise.
Sway in narrow alleyways in the major cities and
feel the warmth of life occurring.

When here
In "Poetry Land,"
I am traveling
To distant worlds
Of the imagination
Unending,
Mystical and Exotic.

When here
In the "Real World,"
I am a single, childless
Woman.
Mid-thirties;
Two cats.
Misunderstood,
Unconventional.

I lost my glasses
This morning.
Suddenly I'm back
In highschool,
"In my mind."
Remembering all
The times
I taped them;
Tried many types:
Scotch, Masking, Packing.

Luckily, In my adult life
I'm now prepared.

I dig under my bed
For my "back-up pair."

Checked every corner
Of my small studio
To find that my spectacles,
Just like lost socks,
Have vanished
To Neverland.

Having washed her doll
Battered Betty in the baby
bath, Helen dries it in an
old towel her mother gave

her, rubbing it with her
childish motherly attention
to detail. That done, she
dresses Betty in some doll's

clothes her father brought
home from a  junk shop
on his way home one Friday.
She wraps Betty in a fading

shawl, and goes to the front
door. Where you off to? her
mother asks. Taking Betty
out for a walk, she replies.

Where abouts? probably
to Jail Park, Helen says.
Watch out for strange men,
her mother says. I'm with

Benedict, Helen says. O,
well that's OK then, her
mother says, relieved,
pushing damp hair from

her lined forehead. Helen
goes out the front door
and walks along to the
railway bridge next to the

Duke of Wellington pub
where Benedict said to
met him. She pats the doll's
back as she walks, tightens

the shawl to keep the doll
warm. Benedict is waiting
by the pub wall; his cowboy
hat is pushed back, 6 shooter

gun is tucked in the belt
of his short trousers. Helen
sees him before he sees her,
she prepares herself: licks

fingers to dampen down her
hair, straightens her thick
lens spectacles, wipes her
nose on the back of her hand.

Am I late? she says as she
approaches him. He pushes
himself from the wall, his 6
shooter quickly out of the belt,

he blows the end. No, he says,
just thinking of the Billy-the-Kid
I saw at the cinema the other day.
Got shot. Died. I wouldn’t have

done that, I'd not have turned my
back on the marshal whatever
his name was. Helen rocks Betty
in her small arms. Given Betty

a bath, she says, nice and clean now.  
Benedict gives the doll a glance,
puts his gun away in the belt.
Good, he says, can't have our

kid *****. Helen smiles, no, we
can't, can we, she says. Mum
says to look out for strange men,
she adds as an after thought.

Benedict pats his gun, no strange
man will get to you or Betty,
he says determinedly. Just as
Mum says, Helen says quietly,

looking at the cowboy beside
her, his hat now pushed forward,
his hazel eyes focusing, on her
and the doll. Let's go walk, he

says, I'll give you and Betty
a push on the swings and
roundabout. So they walk up
Bath Terrace, she telling him

about a boy at school calling
her four eyes, and he musing
of putting a couple of slugs in
the kid's head: BANG BANG,

the caps will go, just smoke,
no holes, no death, or if he chose,
maybe a good sock in the nose.

Splendor of ended day, floating and filling me!
Hour prophetic—hour resuming the past!
Inflating my throat—you, divine average!
You, Earth and Life, till the last ray gleams, I sing.

Open mouth of my Soul, uttering gladness,
Eyes of my Soul, seeing perfection,
Natural life of me, faithfully praising things;
Corroborating forever the triumph of things.

Illustrious every one!
Illustrious what we name space—sphere of unnumber’d spirits;
Illustrious the mystery of motion, in all beings, even the tiniest insect;
Illustrious the attribute of speech—the senses—the body;
Illustrious the passing light! Illustrious the pale reflection on the new moon in the western sky!
Illustrious whatever I see, or hear, or touch, to the last.

Good in all,
In the satisfaction and aplomb of animals,
In the annual return of the seasons,
In the hilarity of youth,
In the strength and flush of manhood,
In the grandeur and exquisiteness of old age,
In the superb vistas of Death.

Wonderful to depart;
Wonderful to be here!
The heart, to jet the all-alike and innocent blood!
To breathe the air, how delicious!
To speak! to walk! to seize something by the hand!
To prepare for sleep, for bed—to look on my rose-color’d flesh;
To be conscious of my body, so satisfied, so large;
To be this incredible God I am;
To have gone forth among other Gods—these men and women I love.

Wonderful how I celebrate you and myself!
How my thoughts play subtly at the spectacles around!
How the clouds pass silently overhead!
How the earth darts on and on! and how the sun, moon, stars, dart on and on!
How the water sports and sings! (Surely it is alive!)
How the trees rise and stand up—with strong trunks—with branches and leaves!
(Surely there is something more in each of the tree—some living Soul.)

O amazement of things! even the least particle!
O spirituality of things!
O strain musical, flowing through ages and continents—now reaching me and America!
I take your strong chords—I intersperse them, and cheerfully pass them forward.

I too carol the sun, usher’d, or at noon, or, as now, setting,
I too throb to the brain and beauty of the earth, and of all the growths of the earth,
I too have felt the resistless call of myself.

As I sail’d down the Mississippi,
As I wander’d over the prairies,
As I have lived—As I have look’d through my windows, my eyes,
As I went forth in the morning—As I beheld the light breaking in the east;
As I bathed on the beach of the Eastern Sea, and again on the beach of the Western Sea;
As I roam’d the streets of inland Chicago—whatever streets I have roam’d;
Or cities, or silent woods, or peace, or even amid the sights of war;
Wherever I have been, I have charged myself with contentment and triumph.

I sing the Equalities, modern or old,
I sing the endless finales of things;
I say Nature continues—Glory continues;
I praise with electric voice;
For I do not see one imperfection in the universe;
And I do not see one cause or result lamentable at last in the universe.

O setting sun! though the time has come,
I still warble under you, if none else does, unmitigated adoration.

Miss Graham put on
the record player
a black LP

of some Beethoven stuff
and you and Reynard
sat at the back

of the class
writing down
other kids’ names

backward
or guessing
which girl

had the biggest ****
or had had their first kiss
and with whom

and Miss Snoot
down at the front
thin and gaunt

sat with her head
laying on
her folded arms

taking in
the music
her right finger

conducting
an invisible orchestra
her dark hair

brought tight
in a bunch
by a ribbon of green

and Reynard said
who'd kiss
her lips or cheek?

she's a titless wonder
he added
you wondered

how the music
had taken her
to some other place

how her finger moved
how her closed eyes
might one day

open on
an unexpected
husband

who would kiss
and do whatever
but Reynard had

undressed her
in his mind
describing each

and every article
of clothing he'd removed
and the music

had darkened
and grown heavier
and Miss Graham

scanned you all
through thin
framed spectacles

her eyes focusing
on Reynard
then you

then away again
and Miss Snoot
whose finger had retired

just lay there
seemingly asleep
like one too tired

whose thin frame
like one half starved
lay slightly in motion

to the music's drug
and despite
Reynard's rude words

beside in your ear
stirred in you
the odd desire

upon her cheek
and frame
to kiss and hug.

Vos premières saisons à peine sont écloses,

Enfant, et vous avez déjà vu plus de choses

Qu'un vieillard qui trébuche au seuil de son tombeau.

Tout ce que la nature a de grand et de beau,

Tout ce que Dieu nous fit de sublimes spectacles,

Les deux mondes ensemble avec tous leurs miracles.

Que n'avez-vous pas vu ? Les montagnes, la mer,

La neige et les palmiers, le printemps et l'hiver,

L'Europe décrépite et la jeune Amérique ;

Car votre peau cuivrée aux ardeurs du tropique,

Sous le soleil en flamme et les cieux toujours bleus,

S'est faite presque blanche à nos étés frileux.

Votre enfance joyeuse a passé comme un rêve

Dans la verte savane et sur la blonde grève ;

Le vent vous apportait des parfums inconnus ;

Le sauvage Océan baisait vos beaux pieds nus,

Et comme une nourrice au seuil de sa demeure

Chante et jette un hochet au nouveau-né qui pleure,

Quand il vous voyait triste, il poussait devant vous

Ses coquilles de moire et son murmure doux.

Pour vous laisser passer, jam-roses et lianes

Écartaient dans les bois leurs rideaux diaphanes ;

Les tamaniers en fleurs vous prêtaient des abris ;

Vous aviez pour jouer des nids de colibris ;

Les papillons dorés vous éventaient de l'aile ;

L'oiseau-mouche valsait avec la demoiselle ;

Les magnolias penchaient la tête en souriant ;

La fontaine au flot clair s'en allait babillant ;

Les bengalis coquets, se mirant à son onde,

Vous chantaient leur romance ; et, seule et vagabonde,

Vous marchiez sans savoir par les petits chemins,

Un refrain à la bouche et des fleurs dans les mains !

Aux heures du midi, nonchalante créole,

Vous aviez le hamac et la sieste espagnole,

Et la bonne négresse aux dents blanches qui rit

Chassant les moucherons d'auprès de votre lit.

Vous aviez tous les biens, heureuse créature,

La belle liberté dans la belle nature ;

Et puis un grand désir d'inconnu vous a pris,

Vous avez voulu voir et la France et Paris.

La brise a du vaisseau fait onder la bannière,

Le vieux monstre Océan, secouant sa crinière

Et courbant devant vous sa tête de lion,

Sur son épaule bleue, avec soumission,

Vous a jusques aux bords de la France vantée,

Sans rugir une fois, fidèlement portée.

Après celles de Dieu, les merveilles de l'art

Ont étonné votre âme avec votre regard :

Vous avez vu nos tours, nos palais, nos églises,

Nos monuments tout noirs et nos coupoles grises,

Nos beaux jardins royaux, où, de Grèce venus,

Étrangers comme vous, frissonnent les dieux nus,

Notre ciel morne et froid, notre horizon de brume,

Où chaque maison dresse une gueule qui fume.

Quel spectacle pour vous, ô fille du soleil,

Vous toute brune encore de son baiser vermeil.

La pluie a ruisselé sur vos vitres jaunies,

Et, triste entre vos sœurs au foyer réunies,

En entendant pleurer les bûches dans le feu,

Vous avez regretté l'Amérique au ciel bleu,

Et la mer amoureuse avec ses tièdes lames

Qui se brodent d'argent et chantent sous les rames ;

Les beaux lataniers verts, les palmiers chevelus,

Les mangliers traînant leurs bras irrésolus ;

Toute cette nature orientale et chaude,

Où chaque herbe flamboie et semble une émeraude ;

Et vous avez souffert, votre cœur a saigné,

Vos yeux se sont levés vers ce ciel gris baigné

D'une vapeur étrange et d'un brouillard de houille,

Vers ces arbres chargés d'un feuillage de rouille ;

Et vous avez compris, pâle fleur du désert,

Que **** du sol natal votre arôme se perd,

Qu'il vous faut le soleil et la blanche rosée

Dont vous étiez là-bas toute jeune arrosée ;

Les baisers parfumés des brises de la mer,

La place libre au ciel, l'espace et le grand air ;

Et, pour s'y renouer, l'hymne saint des poètes

Au fond de vous trouva des fibres toutes prêtes ;

Au chœur mélodieux votre voix put s'unir ;

Le prisme du regret dorant le souvenir

De cent petits détails, de mille circonstances,

Les vers naissaient en foule et se groupaient par stances.

Chaque larme furtive échappée à vos yeux

Se condensait en perle, en joyau précieux ;

Dans le rythme profond votre jeune pensée

Brillait plus savamment, chaque jour enchâssée ;

Vous avez pénétré les mystères de l'art.

Aussi, tout éplorée, avant votre départ,

Pour vous baiser au front, la belle poésie

Vous a parmi vos sœurs avec amour choisie ;

Pour dire votre cœur vous avez une voix,

Entre deux univers Dieu vous laissait le choix ;

Vous avez pris de l'un, heureux sort que le vôtre !

De quoi vous faire aimer et regretter dans l'autre.

As deep and rounded as the entrance
to a vast cave receding into emptiness
of the minds magic, the corridor stalked,
stalked the living and the lost with its presence

swerving into the undergrowth where
demons existed with magic potions
and mystical visions of an unknown hell
surrendered, we, to its vicissitudes
of wanton lust, nights of passion,ignoble strife
wandering in the mists of reason
searching for the souls location
in an unkempt place
where nothing reasonable existed
in this inferno of hate.

There was darkness, dense and deep
with screams reverberating
chilling spectacles of loss
as each one clambered over the others
mistakes
repeating the same, twice over.

There was a thin ray at the far end
and piecing the darkness like a
laser stab, this light found us huddled
in a network of nothingness
devoid of all senses, stripped of all sensation
afraid even to look at its glare
completely ignorant of who we were
or why we were located in this hell
of no mercy.

We searched for the  ray, blinding
in its beauty, and we held on to it
like a rope of discovery
struggling to find its source
in some far off kingdom
where the electric, supernatural power of mercy
emanated endlessly.

Leaving aside all that we carried
as heavy baggage
materialism and magic
raging hate and loneliness
pain and poverty, injustice,
everything that weighted us down
in an unwanted space

we struggled free from the chains
that bound us to our greed.

God stood at the entrance.
He had no face
no necklaces of gold or diamonds
or even a loose garb
He had no blonde hair
no angelic eyes
nothing in fact
adorned in the scriptures
nothing man like in making

The entity stood there
clean as the light
and we surrendered in haste
at this complete abandon.

The corridor closed behind us
as we walked into the light
of day. This was the moment
when levitation made sense
and we rose up on judgement day
to face the consequences
of our actions.

Author Notes

A metaphorical meeting of Heaven and Hell.

Contemplation 8
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

He'd been hanging around for some time now, indeed... he'd become rather proficient in that direction of late and although it would probably be rude to point, you could hardly accuse him of loitering... and certainly not with intent, which would have been of some considerable comfort to Norman's Mother, given his current situation, particularly since the latest complication in his otherwise dull and uneventful life, had left him predisposed towards looking a little more drawn in the face than was usual for the time of year and a decidedly deeper shade of green.

     Barely discernible, only the deeper scars now remained to  mar the roadside foliage, bearing scant witness to the motorcycle's recent and untimely misadventure... regrettably with Norman still mounted astride.  Having lost all adhesion with the freshly resurfaced country lane the motorcycle had promptly slewed sideways and across the wet grassy verge before plunging down the wooded embankment, there to encounter its own humbling demise and land in the shallow watercourse below, but it was still early Summer and already the verdant undergrowth had begun to recover.

     At the point where his motorcycle, having determined without deviation or interruption to take the most direct route to its final resting place below and follow the downwardly allure of gravity... Norman being somewhat lighter and more aerodynamic than the former had been propelled, amid a flurry of leaves and twigs headlong through the outermost branches of the nearest tree... and promptly snapped his neck... Far below a dog-eared circular proclaimed 'kidz do it better on wheelz'!!!

       In many ways it was the most handsome beech tree you could ever wish to lay eyes upon, majestic in stature and albeit stationary in nature, was full of life, contrary to its uninvited guest who decidedly was not... but who definitely was just as static as the beech tree... and which by any stretch of the imagination had far more right to be there than Norman did.
  
     The sudden and unforeseen turn of events of the previous forty eight hours had cast grievous, Holiday nullifying inevitability directly into the path of any plans Norman may have prematurely made in that direction... and for the moment at least to be left hanging high and dry in the lush, verdant canopy far above his motorcycle, currently languishing in the sparkling clear waters below... and it has to be said, without so much as a pair of galoshes between them, and having little else to do other than hang around nodding his head in the warm Summer breeze he swayed gently up and down in the light country air.

     Pausing mid-twitch on three legs between Norman's deceased neck and his equally demised shoulders, an inquisitive squirrel was now the prime mover in our eponymous hero's sudden and discontinued modus-operandi as it provoked involuntary nods from Normans head, gestures of consent as the prying rodent set itself to investigate in great detail the darkest, innermost depths of Norman's inside breast pocket.

     Norman's unintentional leave of absence had finally extinguished once and for all any further thought of future remittance towards the outstanding balance due on the motorcycle hire purchase agreement, which as luck would have it was just as well, because his equally unintended leave of absence, so it transpired, had also extinguished Norman... and thereby deprived him once and for all of any further thought of his outstanding ability to pay them or indeed, any further thought at all.

     The squirrel meanwhile, having brushed aside the meagre contents of Normans pocket finally emerged victorious into the subdued light of the dappled canopy, brandishing a hard won paper-tissue proudly clenched between its teeth... before moving on to other, far more pressing matters on the branch opposite... then paused to scratch its ear...  Now it may be of some interest to the reader at this point... or not, as the case may be, but the squirrel allegedly knew a friend of a friend, who incidentally runs the little B&B; further down the road and who would be prepared to swear on Norman's other-worldly life that she'd seen far worse looking faces peering back from the bathroom cabinet mirror of a Sunday morning after a ***** night out with the lads... than anything she could ever possibly imagine exercising squatters rights way above in the majestic beech tree.

     Flies seemed to be one of the few living creatures that morning who hadn't raised any objection to Norman's ill-mannered intrusion... indeed, were currently hatching plans of their own in that particular direction and take intimacy to the next level with regard to lunchtime seating arrangements... and who had assured him from day one, that while their long term prognosis for Norman attaining ***** and independent posture was by no means cut-and-dried, he should nevertheless be moving about, not necessarily under his own steam in no time at all... and by the look of his complexion, it would seem that in the interim period he should be thankful for the company.

     As the balmy Summer afternoon steadily drew to its own happy conclusion Norman, without a care in the world and now in the early larval stage of being in the family way, so to speak and shortly to shed a little life of his own... stared vacantly out at what had recently become his own neck of the woods, rapidly becoming a permanent fixture in the pastoral landscape... and while his sudden relocation may have been a real eye opener for some, for Norman he'd discovered the true meaning of be at one with nature, about the birds and the bees and especially the flies in the trees...  

     So there we must leave poor Norman with his recent and enduring affliction, nodding in the dappled shade of the majestic beech tree, playing host to the countryside and the following seasons crop rotation, leaving his Mum to worry as to whether her Son had fresh underwear that morning... or not as the case may be... the County Constabulary making their door to door enquiries as to Norman's current whereabouts... his former employer re-adjusting next months pay cheque... accordingly and the hire purchase company about to dispatch final demands indiscriminately left, right and centre for financial delinquency.  The only other claim you could probably make with any degree of certainty was that Norman's full-face motorcycle helmet had by no means achieved that which was expected of it for his ultimate well-being that day... and was doing little more than keep his hair dry and his spectacles from slipping further than his chin.
                                                           ­  ­                                                                ­ ­                                                                ­ ­             ...   ...   ...**

A work in progress.                                                        ­                                                     1122

skyscraper man on seattle time
looms in the corner of swan lake and fry
untouchable denim untouchable blueblack plaid jacket
     he's put together with clothespins
     he's put together with stipends
     he's crammed between taxi cab book ends
skyscraper man on seattle time
stoic as the jet engines roar by
all his friends are magazines all his friends currentbrief
     he's got a little future
     he's got a few dimes
     he's got no father to call out the lies
skyscraper man on seattle time
watches smog children kick ***** on concrete
vulnerable under trees writes his novels in purpleink
     he's married once before
     he's read crucifixion lore
     he's returned his money to the store
skyscraper man on seattle time
looking through spectacles of ***** and brine
the rain falls hard the breeze sweet on the leaves
     he's emptying the soul of modern rock n' roll
     he's emptying the tray of ashed thought
     he's emptying the bank account cold
skyscraper man on seattle time
sheds crinkled skinmemory like the cicada
a twin-sized deathbed deathbed in apt. 203
     he's nothing.
     he's ever.
     he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
carbon copied and eternal as saltwater as rust
invisible and tapping at the runrain window
     he's nothing.
     he's ever.
     he's happened.
skyscraper man on seattle time
climbs himself to the cosmos lightheaded perfection
ethereal visions of fullbloom love and legacy with measure
     he's nothing.
     he's ever.
     he's happened.

Having a Coke with You
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles

and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them

I look
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the **** Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse

it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it

by,
FRANK O'HARA

To-day, this insect, and the world I breathe,
Now that my symbols have outelbowed space,
Time at the city spectacles, and half
The dear, daft time I take to nudge the sentence,
In trust and tale I have divided sense,
Slapped down the guillotine, the blood-red double
Of head and tail made witnesses to this
****** of Eden and green genesis.

The insect certain is the plague of fables.

This story's monster has a serpent caul,
Blind in the coil scrams round the blazing outline,
Measures his own length on the garden wall
And breaks his shell in the last shocked beginning;
A crocodile before the chrysalis,
Before the fall from love the flying heartbone,
Winged like a sabbath *** this children's piece
Uncredited blows Jericho on Eden.

The insect fable is the certain promise.

Death: death of Hamlet and the nightmare madmen,
An air-drawn windmill on a wooden horse,
John's beast, Job's patience, and the fibs of vision,
Greek in the Irish sea the ageless voice:
'Adam I love, my madmen's love is endless,
No tell-tale lover has an end more certain,
All legends' sweethearts on a tree of stories,
My cross of tales behind the fabulous curtain.'

After history with Mr Finn
about Saxons or Vikings
or some such thing
you walked home

from school
with Helen
along St George’s Road
the afternoon traffic

hustling and bustling by
and Helen said
that Cogan boy
pulled my plaits

and called me four eyes
and said I looked
like a pug
I think you look pretty

you said
do I?
she said
yes

you replied
and don’t mind
about Cogan
you said

tapping your jacket pocket
(where you kept
your six-shooter cap gun)
he said he’d smash my face

but he never does
he’s all mouth
and short pants
you said

Helen put her arm
under yours
and squeezed it
nice of you to say

I’m pretty
she said
no one’s said that before
and she looked ahead

and you stole a glance
sideward on at her
her plaits held in place
by two rubber bands

her thick lens spectacles
which made her eyes
larger than they were
and her small nose

beneath the bridge
of the wire frame  
you looked away
carrying the image of her away

storing it in your mind
and she said
my mum likes you
she said you’re not like

the other boys
around here
o
you said

thinking of her mother
large as life
pushing the big pram
squeezed into

the huge coat
nice of your mum to say
you said
she pulled your arm closer

to her
her dark blue
raincoat
against your black jacket

you sensed the six-shooter
against your ribs
thinking of Cogan
and firing a cap bang

in the back
of his head
my mum said
I can go

to the cinema
with you
on Saturday morning
matinee

Helen said
o good
you said
not caring what

the other boys might say
with her along side you
in the sixpenny seats
you in jeans

and open necked shirt
and she maybe
in that flowered
red dress

white socks
and black battered shoes
sensing her arm
on yours

as you approached
the traffic lights
at the big junction
catching a glimpse

of her smile
as you both crossed
the road
when the lights

turned green
the afternoon sky grey
rain seeming near
smelling it in the air

thinking of Helen
and of a snatched kiss
but you didn’t think so
or didn’t dare.

Anne crutches herself onto the green lawn of the nursing home and sits at one of the metal white painted tables and in one of the white metal chairs and drops her crutches beside her Benedict whom she called Skinny Kid follows her and sits at the same table looking at her his hazel eyes focusing on her on her black straight hair and dark eyes other children are playing on the swings and slide or sitting at other tables a distance away don't want none of those other sick kids here Kid Anne says they're sneaks and tell tales and moaning Minnies and such but you Kid you're all right you’re possibly the only one here I can tolerate and O those pesky nuns ****** penguins walking about poking their noses into things saying have you had a motion today? have you passed water? yes I said to Sister Agnes I did a dance on one leg as a motion and I passed the running water tap on my way to breakfast what did she say​?Benedict asks she said manners Anne we must have manners and asked me again and I said both and plenty of them and she went off in a huff her black habit gown flapping behind her like some ****** bat one of the kids comes to the table and says can I sit here? of course you can sit you've an **** on you but no you may not Anne says shooing the girl away like she was a dog the girl went off looking back pulling a face how's your leg? Benedict asks missing and aching and driving me to distraction Anne says the ****** stump throbs and gets hot and it makes me a miserable sod can I see it Benedict asks what its like? you're a one aren't you always after seeing my stump later maybe not here with the nosey penguins gawking at everything we do a nun walks down to the table her eyes like black dots behind her wire spectacles ah Anne have you been upsetting the other children again? are you asking me or telling me? Anne says rubbing her leg eyeing Benedict Lina says you swore at her and told her to sit elsewhere the nun stares at Anne then at Benedict well? what happened the nun asks I never swear Sister I never swear I just said she could sit elsewhere be better for her I may have an illness she may catch and may bring her out in yellow spots the nun doesn't smile or move a muscle in her face her dark eyes move over Anne then Benedict well Benedict were you here? what happened and I want the truth or you'll not go to Heaven if you lie the nun says eyeing the boy scarily she didn't swear the boy says just said to go elsewhere the nun stares at Anne do not be horrible to other children they've as much right to sit here as you do now behave or I’ll report you to Sister Paul and then you'll know it the nun says and walks off like a rook unable to fly Anne farts and smiles sums her up that she says Benedict nods and looks at the table want to go to the beach? I can push you in the wheelchair? how old are you Kid? she asks ten nearly eleven he says she muses looks at him do you know how old I am? she asks eyeing him his quiff of hair the hazel eyes the skinny frame no idea Benedict says I’m twelve Kid although my mother says I’m big for my age got ******* and such Benedict looks past her head at the avenue of tree behind and the path to the beach got ***** hair too she adds to see if he'll blush what's that? he asks what’s what? Anne says ***** hair? he says that'd be telling wouldn't it spoil the surprise although you could always ask the good sisters and say dear Sister Paul what's this ***** hair stuff? she laughs to herself well Kid go get the wheel chair and off we go to the beach the boy smiles and gets up and walks quickly towards the nursing home Anne watches him go she winces and rubs her stump with her hands backwards and forwards she watches the other kids at play at the nuns walking here and there then Benedict comes across the grass pushing the wheelchair at a fair speed she smiles as he comes up to the table here we are one wheelchair he says slightly out of breath right bring it round here Kid and so he pushes the wheelchair next to her and manages to get herself in comfortably and rocks about until she's settled right then Kid did anyone stop you? yes he says Sister Agnes asked me where I was going with the wheelchair and I said you had need of it and she pulled a face then walked off with a face like a pinched behind Benedict says good on you Kid now let's' to the beach and away from the peasants and sickly she says so Benedict gets behind the wheelchair and pushes away from the table his arms outstretched his hands gripping the handles and off they go over the grass and onto the pebbly path between the trees and the sound of birdsong and the smell of the sea filling their noses and out the back gate and onto the path along by the sea the sounds of sea rush and waves and gull cries and people calling out and laughter and kids calling and crying and she says O this it Kid this is ******* living breathe in that air breathe in deep and Benedict breathes in deeply as he pushes her along the path smooth and easier and his thin legs pushing along the pathway and as he pushes he gazes down at her black haired head then at the red dress with the one leg sticking out the stump not visible but only the outline of it being there and the smell of the sea and salt in the air.

Emptiness, dark room, twelve o'clock, somewhere in space.

Shallow thoughts of trivial travesties
pace through tired tracks, never ceasing;
swollen feet aching for relief;
they run wild
until their toes bleed through their white linen socks
and their faces yield blurred spectacles of anguish.

Hairline fracture of the skull,
oozing dark wishes and sick devotions,
so afraid
that anyone and anything might remind you
of your little demon children
starving at the supper table,
calling for mama as they
sluggishly move their frail little bodies
in wretched formations.

The salt of their tears is
your seed to silently sow;
all you need to know.

To live and forget who you are all at once;
it's nice to sometimes escape fast,
we hardly have a say in these things, you know.

Standing at the crossroads of time and eternity where loved ones crossed over and became immortal
Their life and words in that moment became momentous they no longer were just people of earth but
They found their way to the place of spectacles all of life you hunger and plead for riches and in a flash
Within the purist light all of your hearts yearning is fulfilled unspeakable riches are everywhere and the
Greatest of all wishing and hope has happened now you are numbered and truly are one of the greatest
Treasures a spirit unbound like the summer breeze that blows across the window sill and carries the
Curtin listlessly outward that act lingers in the mind down through the years such simplicity that fondly
Takes hold of the tender part of the soul we don’t speak of it but time and again it floats through our
Thinking and on it we drift to a lovely place of bygone memories or the light of innocence in the eyes of
A small child it pulls and tugs like sea waves only on the surface but they mean so much they have such
Color as the sun shines in them and the green they produce is riveting we turn to look away but our
Seeing has been altered we have received investment that can’t easily be exclaimed but is enjoyed
Joyously moonlight is the common sight of the night hours but let it but touch her skin it glows the one
You knew or thought you knew turns to porcelain unattainable glory before your eyes you stop and gaze
She looks and her eyes show how much she is pleased magic is alive in the wood you have slipped across
Loves hidden boundaries it is boundless electrifying indescribable this two souls who started out
Indifferently down a simple walk and crossed over into glory that is reserved for lovers the real and the
True is exhibited just beyond the intangible into this mist this wonder and the speechless you have
Passed you touch another the feeling is like no other now the voice is the sweetest intruder you have
And will ever know sweet winsome the willow the wine the one of a kind restful divine mystery depths
You did fall your heart was dropped into this well of memories the beginning of time is there and the
End as well the thoughts of kings and the swelling of great seas breathe and dwell there you but a clay
Vessel have breathed the eternal out of time and space you have entered the sacred wonder of true
Creation no power on earth holds such dimensions as love possess I just wanted to share what came to
Me God bless you live in such privilege when you give and except love

what is it, exactly,
that you're doing?

I'm talking to you,
universe

how am I to take
what's happening?

I bare crooked teeth
still through all

I feel so warm &
wanted

yet so wholly
rejected

I need whispers
in my ear

sweet messages
to hold me

when there's no
refuge near

what at last is
the scheme here?

there's a rug
somewhere,

set to be ripped
from under me

but that's how
these things go

like spring snow

the way that the
wind blows

all of those
spectacles

into observable
formation

I want to understand

I'm not ready yet

Observation. the act. a frenetic rat
turning the cheese around.
Twisted little turning fingers.

a scientist looks at two peas
in a pod, and deigns to his ******* child.

His spectacles reflect the world
and classify to a faulty eye.

As fingers manipulate the strings;
connected to divinity
or the prison-within-ity?

A man long flown towards freedom...
hanging high from the telephone line...

Triumphant introspection;
chains inwardly strewn;
a thrall to the matterless dark.

A slave to the unreal Master;
now free to plot against his enemies,
he curses the baker’s wife.

Turning the cheese around
the rat sniffs and inspects
with an eye for ratio,

a life applied ambitiously,
to the Holy cheese and gold trophies.

A ticket to the image of love
But how will he trust her fidelity?
The mail-order bride, she cries.

I was strolling around the cemetery
On a Sunday afternoon,
When the crumbling earth had opened up
And I fell in a werewolf’s tomb,
I wouldn’t have thought it possible
Were it not for the werewolf’s teeth,
That grazed my arm, and cut my hand,
It was way beyond belief.

But there it was with a canine head
And a slack and open jaw,
Just half a man and half a beast
With a mouth like the devil’s maw,
Its teeth were sharp, serrated as
The blood ran down my arm,
Went mingling with the ancient fur
That had kept the creature warm.

I must have shrieked in the ancient grave
For they came to pull me out,
But once they noticed the wooden stake
Leapt back, with many a shout,
They all shrank back away from me
As if I was unclean,
And left me shivering by the grave
Like a ***** in a dream.

And so I slunk back home again
Bent over in my shame,
I padded swiftly through the weeds
Like a dog that’s going lame,
The blood had clotted along my arm
Had soaked right through my shirt,
So I thought that I’d better hide it then
By rolling in the dirt.

My spectacles were cracked by then
So I cast them off, aside,
I couldn’t believe my vision, with
My eyes, so open wide,
I saw with pin-point clarity,
Not like I’d seen before,
When everything, both near and far
Was seen through a hazy blur.

My wife was sitting and waiting in
Her old and comfy chair,
And though she greeted me cheerily
I could only smell her hair,
But just one thing had startled me
And it’s worthy now to note,
My eyes had sought out her jugular
Soft pulsing at her throat.

It didn’t take me long to tell her
Why I felt unclean,
She bathed and smeared my hand and arm
With some white unguent cream,
Then in the kitchen, later on
Just as the Moon would rise,
She waved a jar of bright red blood
Right before my eyes.

‘Now drink,’ she said, ‘drink every drop,
I know this ancient cure,
And I don’t want to see you stop
Before I have you pure,’
And so I did, this cloying drink,
A foul and horrid taste,
And later on I found she’d made it
From tomato paste.

‘There’s lots of other condiments
I mixed into this crud,
I had to make you think that you
Were drinking human blood.’
‘I’m cured of drinking blood for life
I said, ‘how did you know?’
‘My father was a werewolf too,
Some many years ago.’

David Lewis Paget

What if the things we see are only perceivable by us? As if we all have unique spectacles, ones that let us see what we think is normal, but to put them on anothers’ eyes would be to change their entire world, their idea of what things are. Blue is orange, green is black, trees are ugly, distortion is beautiful.
Then what is the truth? What is the tree’s true nature, the honest hue of blue, what does my face look like in reality? Suppose there is no truth. That what we perceive IS reality, in all honest hues, viewed differently in each spectacle of each individual. That it is all in the mind.
If life exists in that way, in the mere space of our minds, the vastly infinite universe that resides in all of us, then my only goal is to share my spectacles.

Do you see me in the hallway
Do you care if I’m even there
Tear drop falling on my suitcase
Hair blown out of place
Where I’m going, is unsure for now
Recklessly fleeing the scene
It’s not safe here anymore
Not for my heart
From jeweled crowns to ***** sheets
I’ll make due, because I’m brand new
No one knows me here
A  buggy ride across town
And I turned a new page
Actually put together a new book
And sealed the bindings
The sequence of events doesn’t match up
But who pays attention anyway
I have no past
No old friends to recount the broken glass
And blood on the floor
I’m a guardian angel for all they know
I’m the victim really
It was not that bad what I did
Not that bad at all
I had to
To get away
The evidence is in the river
And I no longer sit on its banks
And wish life would be different
My new book has clean pages
mostly
Why does this crimson stain never wash away
I’m too meek and innocent to be seen through their spectacles of judgment
This pub will surely welcome me with a smile
Now to the sink to fully wash away the past and the evidence

What is it really like to be old?
Read along, and you'll be told,
Well, there's spectacles and hearing aids,
Also along the way, by the way,
There's dentures in glasses,
Zimmers on greys who want to make passes,
Then there's incontinence aids, bad hips,
Appointments at medical specialists,
Then you're off to the pharmacists,
To get all your scripts,
Then there's the alphabet song,
Read along, read along,
A is for Arthritis,
B is for Bursitis,
C is for Constipation,
Always a grey consternation,
D is for Diarrhoea,
And no doctor wants to know ya!
Finally, Z is for the big sleep at the end,
No wonder geriatrics go round the bend,
Yes, greys, these are our golden years,
Have fun learning, no need for tears!

She looked over the rim of her spectacles
Wrapping me in cellophane yesterdays
I left the room, did not digest left with right
As my mind yanked my coat from the peg
Leaving tear stained finger prints on the locker door

Wedged between the garden gate a bird sat
Its wings trapped in suffocating feathers
Broken tips flapped its tomorrows into yesterday
Dreamt the belief it could fly with mother nature

Its back eyes spelt fear, with beaked entrapment
I was used to seeing the bird on a wing...soaring
I did not know its fairy tale ending....watching
I saw someone whisk it away, a bundle of cotton cloth

I wonder if it fell out with nature as I fell short
Of 'Miss' with her desire to teach the fan dango
To those that wouldn't learn.  The french parrot laughed
In my day dream, as she threw a missile on the wings
Of a near miss chalk board duster.......

The darkness overcame me,
Those shattered spectacles of fire were all around
As the curtains snapped to over the sun, you took what was mine.
The flames enveloped me, and yet I fought them.
For when I broke cover, the sun was shining,
Clear as it did in days of yore .
Your light had built me, and in that it failed
I fled into the darkness, for my fate led to death,
And to victory over your ambitions.
To fertility over desolation
To prosperity over the darkness that,
Unfolded upon us, like oil on canvas.
And yet I am afraid.
The living have traded for the dead.
The fire dwells over all that resist.
The light of the shadow is fading
Where art thou, o Evenstar, and why do you flee , before our end,
And though you may flee to bright lit shores
Where the maladies of death come to nought
It is we who watch thy girdle
The blood upon our swords and the splinters of our shields,
They hold back what thou fear
The halls of our fathers await.
We are destined to them
And as gentlemen though we fall to
This darkness that you hold
We shall not accept your order,.
And live and die as gentlemen.
For the hour is long gone for negotiation
The vultures gather for their treats
The unhallowed for their rank,
And yet I shall face thee to the death.
The leaving dare not come near us,
The dead dare not pass by
For as the flames of the elder days are stoked
We shall both meet our doom.
The dead watch our front
The living , betray us
But we of the mighty land shall stand
And fall for those that we hold
That mistress is arriving.
Gentlemen, I give you today's victory,
And tonight's mourning.

ray peeps around a corner,
playful child reflecting light through
a periscope. lashing gales, umbrellas concave,
ponds dampen scurrying workers.

morning sky was blue, everything
turned with lunch. praise replaced by
a battle back to element of gas.
curtains drape to trap comforts.

again the sun hides, astral signals
unbalance and change. Venus to star
in a celestial ballet. scorching orb
of retina burn the prop and set.

eclipses of dramatic entrances in a single
month. exit from knots and
hibernation from the troubles of others.
a bear stomps to a hollow trunk.

king tides and fishermen endangered, waters
rise hauled by lunar spectacles.
maddening navigators endanger with
skids escaping weather and wheels.

pool at the back door trapped by
leaves on a grate. level rises then cleanses
bricks as a gust clears the drain. A single
dawn ‘til she casts her spell

on a damaged inhabitant. James Cook sailed
with secret plans to record her dance.
pressure on, contingencies set, the
ninth battalion armed and twitching