You
lit the fuse inside
and were the muse beside
quelling bruise and cry of tide
never refusing or denied.
Oh how you skewed my pride
and continued to deny -
no use for us to try
or choose as we
not I.

There are some who cannot sleep
but I am not one of those.
Maybe it is sunflares, or wireless waves -
or just careless late night revelries
that cause my eyes not want to see,
and crave the shut and hide
from light and ordinary days.
Oh how sweet a fix of sleep might be
for me here counting blinks of hours,
from daylight bounds to cushioned doze.
Maybe I’m just getting older?
Or staring at the screen too long?
Perhaps a candle burned all sides?
And as I cup my forehead in cold palm hands,
and drift awhile before whip-snapped back,
I’m too tired to feel guilt or fully realise
my luck - that I’m not one of those,
who cannot sleep.

He left
before the ink
had dried.
Just stood up,
pushed the chair
then walked away.
But not in temper or frustration -
more like quiet, pensive air
such as that found at the end of exams
or when signing mortal documents.
This was determined consideration,
as evidenced by the pen lined up -
gracefully placed with elegant hand
in symmetry with closed covers
and memories scrawled,
like old ledger marks recalled.
But there was deathly deliberation
when he capped the lid and bit his tongue
to stop the thoughts that leaked
on paper trails and trials,
that lead to you and me.
It was not good for him you see;
this opening of secret boxes,
this butterfly chase without a net.
This nakedness of soul before an ocean -
it hurt just a bit too much.
And so he sighed and left
before the ink
could dry.

Like
needles spun
from north to south
talking circled hope
and pushing on
like rivers run
from fount to mouth
discarded ropes
below the sun.
And all things done
when we were young
on scattered slopes
now end before
they have
begun.

Hoist your sight above the lashes
weighing like cross-roped crates,
their cargo pressing down
upon your eyes.

Why - when there is much more
to see, to experience, and to learn
must you focus on the hatches
and not the sky?
Why?

It started,
with a cursor kiss
and keyboard strokes
before they clicked.
Then whispered nights
became the safety net
that fixed the breath
of teasing swoon
and furtive sighs.
But these,
weren’t young fools
or sweat-soaked youth.
No, these souls
had learned the dance before -
a thousand times in fact
it should be known.
And every step
was shared.
So they danced.
They really danced.
Not just in notion, nor theory -
but like fiery molecules,
rolling in energetic flux
like downhill streams
rushing to sea,
in synchronicity.
Treading dreams
of flowered sway and
waltzes in the shadows
behind St. Wenseslav’s horse
they whirled and flitted -
not wondering where hours
roam or care to go.
And that was that.
And they both knew -
the moment when
the dancefloor
moved.

Here, we are ghosts in the armature
rattling cage and tugging tight the lines.
Like puppets hung in trapeze swing,
with harness pull from wind and spool.
And we are neon birds on tangled toes
with careful steps over charged cathode.
We move from A to B, then on to Z
with plug and play perfundity.
Let’s pull away the wires,
try to find the real
you and me.

This one’s for the two of you
as you rise like stars above,
like prayered hands that clasp
the twin souled magnet night.

This one’s for the two of you,
in kissing wind and shared air,
like gulping silver fish that rush
to capture all, to be the ones.

This one’s for the two of you
who think these thoughts you share
and gaze in pools of eyes and soul,
then fall in love with wonders found.

When all your words are voiced outloud,
And every leaf is sketched and proud,
With every nod amongst the crowd
As shuffled air inside a cloud.

When you count totals of the days,
And mark the notches in your ways,
With charted limits to your gaze
As mitred pace in things you say.

When all goes back into the box,
And wheels spin against the blocks,
With silence before the aftershock,
As melting ice amongst the rocks.

How will you know?

I saw the dancer smile.
She couldn’t hide her happiness
for all of us who sat in front
in theatre aisles.
It was clear sat ten rows back -
seeing this clarity of moment.
It was all magnified and close -
spotlight precise in focus;
Sometimes, when we look for joy
we need help to see
more clearly.

Even a champion will sometimes find
situations that conspire to defeat ambition.
Contained maybe, by wrapped circumstance -
a soul in crinkled hold - in darkened fold
exhausted by the walls that sap his will,
that suck the air that starves the light.
Trapped, in a brown paper bag - scrunched and
dirty bunched, held tight in fate’s hand.
And he has tumbled in with bruises
and sweaty fists that push against
the muted thing he dreads to know.
Even champions will tire.

Bananas
and onions
that’s all
he wants to eat.
Oh! This little boy
will be the death of me.
He rides his bike
without his helmet on,
and wails when I defy his will -
makes me feel that I am wrong,
when his trousers
are too loose and itch
his thrashing legs
that kick me in the jaw.
‘Lighten up’ I think when he
tightens up his noose on me,
this bedtime story heckler,
this seasoned pre-school shirk
up against a punch drunk fool
waiting to hear the bell.
And one of us will go to hell
but I’m sure it won’t be him.
It’s when he smiles you see -
he’s an angel, who hides
his wings.

There’s a stone in my shoe
under gavel of tread and stride.
A remembrance that coincides
with stomach-knot reminders
and memento sighs returning
with every step away from days
before today.

Then, we walked barefoot,
it seemed a thousand miles.
Over hot rocks like peppercorn steaks,
Over warm, soft dunes like sifted nutmeg,
Over rutted shale towards seaweed dance.
And there, with grazed ankles, toes and heel,
that was when you taught me how to feel -
to let the soothful waves just brush away
all unkind gravel, stone and sand.

And now, there’s a stone in my shoe.
And it annoys and bothers me so,
I wonder what I should do -
that’s why, I think of you.

I will keep this thought
to myself tonight.

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	
F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	

F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	
F i b  o   n     a        c              c                       i                                  .
	

Nuance.
Now there’s a good word.
A sense, a feeling
of sophisticated subtlety.
Like something you can’t see
or touch, or taste
beyond mundane reality.
Something you can’t quite place
or an underlying philosophy -
perhaps what you might call
intrinsic personality.
Not quite sure and not quite there
like quiet tones in painted air.
But definitely everywhere.
The signals of distinction
I often miss in the meaning,
in the mystery of all
you mean to me.

If I were a woman
would you like me more?
I wouldn’t mind -
In fact, it might
be rather nice.
If I were a woman
how would you speak to me?
Would I understand
the secret code
that only women know?
If I were a woman,
would I change my ways?
Would my world turnaround?
Would I learn of grace
or struggled ways?
And if I were a woman,
what of sexuality?
Inevitable. You knew I’d ask,
but intriguing nonetheless.
I just don’t know all this
and never will.
But I am sure
it would be fun
to try.

OK.
I’ll admit it.
I’ve been listening
to Norwegian Jazz.
Is that so bad?
There’s this track
by Jaga Jazzist;
“Swedenborgkske Rom”
It really speaks to me
of things we’ve talked about.
of life, of age, of hope
but loneliness and
melancholy too.
This music,
like winter’s awkward pall
fused with hopeful sun,
and deer breath in the spill of time.
And then, the cracking melt
of ancient ice as whales call below.
A sound, that’s wise and crystalline,
but childlike though and kind.
Ah yes … so haunting!
As if from aged ghosts
calling all their echoes in
from iceberg nights.
Deep as fjords
and rivers spawned,
I listen to Norwegian Jazz,
and think of you.
I wonder if
you’d like
it too.

Who holds the ropes
That tug the pulleyed sky?
Who drapes the blinds of night
O’er blinking lamp of day?
They, with black-out eventide,
Down cross dusked light,
Bringing scene-changed actors back;
To curtain call of spotlight moon.
Much more than stagehand turnaround,
More than cued-up interlude,
More indeed than men can comprehend.
Who masterminds this sunset show?
This finely tuned performances -
Before a thousand billion heartfelt bows
I need to tell them how I feel,
Who are they? Do you know?

So,
it’s goodbye again.
I’ll go back to memories
and wonderings of what you’re gonna do,
what you’re doing, and what you’ve done.
It’s odd. I always thought
we were a duration pair -
like doubled packed lightbulbs
waiting to be found in the drawer.
Maybe not and never mind.
A single lighted match
will have to do.

Meet me,
at the first dream to the left
after the midnight bells.
I’ll be the one wearing a cape
made from peacock’s pride,
and a satin patch over
the wrong eye.
I mean it!
I’ll be there!
Waiting,
for someone -
someone like I’ve never met
(but have always known).
Someone carrying magic
in the heels of their shoes.
But how will I know
if it is you?

Wind,
that dulls.

A selfish air
that doesn’t care.

Rattling me.
Knocking bones.
Cooling heart
like ice sirens
smiling before
the freeze.

Am I so empty?
So… spacious inside,
Why let these fronds
of discontent
take fingerhold
within?

Such spiteful things
thrive in unbound air,
and clutch and ride
on doubts we leave
behind.

Was it you
that started this?

Was it you that passed
through me?