Poems

Stop/go

The ride is smooth but I don’t know
what the morning will bring.
I’m trying to be younger than I am
and to dance. I don’t know what the problem is
with this.

I’d like to be ‘as young as that’
but the calendar and the news,
the ever moving dates say ‘this is not true’.
However, I push easily as though this city,
that I doubt all the time,
in which I live most of the time, this city
that takes me away to others
and serves me back as though it did not matter –

let me stop at this junction –
I want to talk in some kind of bop framework,
some kind of stop-go time,
some kind of waltz, which isn't exactly waltz,
is never four-four disco –

but, this city is full of rain,
my head full of talk of the other,
not the slippery road that it deserved,
but the need to angle a thought
or more, at the morning.

If it is peace, if it is discussion,
if it is the soul of forgiveness for being
so late underneath a skeleton of thought,
if it is a simple riff that says
the city or the town or the street that leads
the time that is not quite the usual,
a song that anticipates and fills
a few minutes that also lead into
a forever, it looks like pillows and sheets
and the time between talk and dawn,
if it is all this and nothing but late arrival,
then I want to give it to you
unaware, but full of the wonder.

Dripping time and minutes,
a slow smooth road into a land you can dial
means you will not say ‘so what’
because my favourite things are jigging
like the north, the free-flowing ride of two am taxis,
smell of rain on the road,
chiming of just a little money
for the man who brings me home,
for the hour that you often dream about
but waits for you still
saying something about moving,
about the high life,
about the ordinary as green
as light holding itself above trees
waiting at the gate, at my time, at a moment
pouring weather into another morning.

 

 

Chasing Appearance

Mirrors I
raise myself into.

~

Rivets in sapphire cracked tiles
lost granite.

~

Tea floating fortune in the golden world.
‘The world of appearances’.

~

Your bad audition has spectators.

~

Fellowship circle
of ants.

~

Leaves on earth
coca cola
‘real refreshment’
sticky tables.

~

Shade stiff midday shine hurts too often.

~

     Checklists
zephyr
anxiety.

~

Sufferance needle
broken in the cloth.

~

Gardens bud
memory corner
a certain dog waits.

~

Honey in the flower my
secret haunt.

~

Travel
rain fleet marks.

~

Salt blown
parabolic a river sings to
shipments of music.

~

The value of misere
poised or posed.

~

Processes you describe
not knowing it hurts.

~

Pallid bowls
electric candles
at altar.

~

A haven mystery in song.

~

Truth dives lies into
words
at the limit if the past
is a metaphor.

~

The query seems
to matter
but night
laughs.

~

Change your aspect
right breast
keeping the score.

~

Front page morning a sliding puzzle.

~

People
look up.

~

Sex+civil+war?

~

Ready to lie
in the waiting.

 

 

Hyperballad

It wasn’t anguish but something other
about the barbeque, not the sound,
which was normal, but it didn’t smell
of meat and the fence was readjusted
so it wasn’t as alive as it had been.
It’s the way quandaries begin when the left
indicator gets smashed by a creeper
and you get the feeling it won’t turn out
right - scones or scotch, it doesn’t matter,
her frock was torn down one side
on the barbed wire but the fishermen
ignored it, the penguin colony was ravaged
by foxes, and there was this burning light
above the highway - no-one said
the space program would be cheap, but
it’s time to put our cards on the table.
If the air is so difficult to breathe, we need
to turn down the music, the cats can
feed themselves. Walk with me, the path is
narrow here and the trucks come close,
you can smell the sheep fear, it’s brief,
but maybe you finally understand,
the white roses by the fence were tended
by the unseen neighbour, but I was sick
for weeks. Now I work with averages -
the bus was late for the second day in a row.

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