With kindly arms, layered in cold
a child scatters bread across water folds.
His arch of energy watched skirmishly
through broken reed-bed end of summer’s hold.
He knows; here they lie, the open-mouthed
battle weary hopes that ache for different tales,
meniscus stirred by ripples in the distant manifold.

To be the first to gather from happenstance
to forget the dragging ballast of concern,
to be ahead in the race to grow untethered.
This is what is craved a thousandfold.

From a distance, the amused child looks on
enjoying the animated turbulence,
thrilled with these ripples of influence.
Watching, wanting, willing -
inquisitive in his scatter.
He urges on this swim of souls
and sees the weakest being bold.

I am just
a plain being.
Not equipped
for complication,
carving driftwood thoughts
not swords for battle cry.
Yet still I sense
the driving spurs
and quickening urged -
the gilded goads,
of knowing
you.

Sore thumbs
devoutly uncool
otherwise voiceless
radio ghost.
Who else
melts the years?
Ordinary bloke
voice of a lifetime
touchstoned
sound champion.
33 at 45rpm,
fluid grace and hope
for grumpy old.
I will miss you,
Uncle John.

(Dedicated to John Peel)

I’m gonna do it.
This thing I’ve been diverting from.
No more sidestepping the situation
Or jumping desert sweat on hotplate rock
Or leaving fly-spun fruit in crusted brook.
This has simmered away in hope, for long enough.
Like pressured steam from the very vent of me -
Excuses, promises, commitment - all lost in the boil
The condensed atoms of ‘if’ and ‘but’ -
Like rolling mist, clinging,
To a mountainside.

We sleep and live in boxes,
drive to work in cubes on wheels
then we settle in our cubicles
and stare at cornered squares.

THIS space is not contained.

This is temporary
of little consequence
a small thing
minor in relevance
a stop-gap thought.
Inconsequential,
indeterminate,
unimportant.
Please ignore.

My meltwax grin is all
I have to share tonight
about the situation I am in.
Me, leaning forward - shrugging
in gallow grimace hold,
before the tightened fate
of our humanity.

I know too well,
this scaffold smile, holding
optimism’s flame up high.
A fading beacon in the gloom,
like dusk kite in the crow of night,
or slowing twist of last leaf fall.
This is all I want to say.

These
      are
           the
                many
                     standing
                           parallel
                                    like
                                snakepine
                              bones
                           or
                        druid
                      stones
                       in
                         landslip
                                 line
                                    these
                                             are
                                                   the
                                                  sleepers
                                                      laid
                                                with
                                          fingers
                                    like
                              matchstick
                        burns
                  and
            dry-clench
                  knots
           in
      twisted
twine
      these
            are
                  they
                          that
                               mark
                                    the
                                          complex
                                                track
                                                   that
                                                   shape
                                                   the
                                               pensive
                                            oxbow
                                         slack
                                    so
                              stand
                           and
                            contemplate
                               the
                                    end
                                       so
                                         push
                                       away
                                         the
                                            first
                                                 to
                                                   learn;
                                                 there
                                            are
                                         many
                                             many
                                                 folds
                                                      to
                                                               you
                                                               and
                                                               I. 

This is where
I set the record straight.
Where the ills or innocents of the day
get just desserts in front of you - the judge and jury.
Line up your forfeiture of events and thoughts,
Unpick the complex truths of what and whom you see.
Examine the motives that lead us here.
For you, are the studied voice of reason,
that prosecutes, yet defends
and speaks for the accused.

I am poetic.

Remember how it smells?
See the beauty that is becomed?
Feel the snapback and know this;
You are awakening.

Who sends this black cat
now crossing my ankles?
Dancing over toes,
see-sawing my shins,
like a skittish autumn leaf
circling the root of me.
It brings strange energies -
dark-spirals of attention.
This purring transduction,
making me wonder.

Is it you?
In another form?
What do you want?

There’s a rocker in the supermart
buying beans and budget ham.
Judging standard over premium,
counting measures, in the cans.
Cool dude, in the freezer row
basking in the frosted glow.
Checking chilled goods’ turn
of sell-by date - and bargains
in the dry ice snow.

He’s queuing with the rest,
no adulation in the aisles.
No signs up on shopfloor plan,
that indicate his style.
Did you see him do the kitchen roll?
Know his genius at the salad bar?
Feel the presence of a superstar
choosing tuna over caviar?

Look, there he is -
waving coupons! Pinching pence,
from our ordinary circumstance.
And there! He signs an autograph,
smiling - grooving, riffing.
A Rockstar, in the checkout jam.

Once, there was a boy
with knotted hands,
unpicking twisted fishing line,
trying not to hear his father’s sigh.
Hard for him to figure out
the pattern in the tangle,
scunched-up in disbelief
in his puzzle weave.

Next, he was a youth,
stood no longer on the bank,
sorting awkward circumstance
and learning how to dance,
with stumbling feet against the laughing,
self-concious twist of age.
So tough, to follow steps involved,
the right and left of teenage told.

Then he became a man,
with laid out blueprint plans,
tracing wires to broken lights,
fumblimg grasps before the night.
Lumpen on the needlewire
with darkness rushing him,
dropping all in race to fix,
an urgent flame to candlesticks.

Now he is old.
Balanced on memories,
pinching out the kinks and fray
from threads binding final days.
Static limbs fail to sort the pins,
but still he prizes the matted ball of who is -
trying to unravel the reasons why,
he understands his father’s sigh.

Today, I curse my dead-leg soul.
Like a flatlined heart - no spike
or charge to spur me on.
Nothing here but vacant signs
and sombre stares in morning rise.
Like clipboard foolscap waiting
for scrawl from a pen without ink.
Oh damn this weary me!
I feel so numb - so empty,
I feel so …

May your god walk with you
as you step through truth unknown
with outstretched arms that mark the hours
towards the growth along your way.
A choice of faith, of credo hewed -
grown from seed that you alone have sown,
the seasoned fruit you now devour,
strong-rooted deep in cold loam and clay.
See the branches growing tall and true?
Parade their fertile climb above the stones,
show your harvest and its wondrous power,
to those who reap not beauty from the day.

All know
blue ivory cover,
and veined ghosts
of storm and rain.
And blood rush wind
conducting orchestras
of leaves, like thread
from endless tapestry.
All towards the slow pulse
glow of every turning moon -
the very things we see
and share.

Torn between
the spirit and the day -
the nightime thought
that stays with me.
Tugged, like
a weary christmas ritual,
still wise and rugged
though - like the last
clear glass on
a scratched bauble.
Where goes this twilight
sort of ponderosity?

In a tiny instant
before sleep,
before dreams
before black;
It is … divine.

Ride the wind,
above tip toe ice
below a snowblind sun.

Quieten the roar
of pin drops
in the waterfall.

Whistle on flames
of lava mound
then, drink the rain.

You are fearless.

When we found the bomb, it was rusted.
like an abandoned mower fallen down,
rotting amonsgt the roots and moss
a grey backed breakfast for worms
and insect insignias barely visible.
Under the lost brown over-run
of its shattered iron case.

I think it was you who first tripped
over this blunt cutter of men
lying for years unknown
in the peaceful forest green.
It was size of two strong arms -
reaching out to us through
the softbed verdant floor.

Before, we were young boys -
bored of the gravel track, wanting
wild trees and Action Men
and McQueen punched jaws -
anything but clipped old man’s roads.
Then, Dad told us; “Go on! Run off!
Find something really exciting to do!”

That’s exactly what we did.

I remember,
the Vetiver night -
all pillow scented
innocence
and star-fueled lust
of youth.

We, as lovers
sharing delighted air
deep, below
the honeyed ocean thrall
in flow and pull,
of sense’s haul.

Tuned high
like piccolo snares
in the grand pre-amble
of life - before
the musty quiet
theatre bow.

You and me,
velvet fleshed,
brushing the skin
of our very being
against the inner folds
of who we were, and are.

Endless,
Complex,
Compelling.

I looked into your eyes
and saw it all.