Sticky

mote to self
waste not want not
recycled post-it
notes world domination
our world is covered

Happy Happy Sad. Repeat.

Looking out through my reflection
I hear the pride of the Robin,
chest puffed into the early sun.

Below fevered Sparrows strip-mine
last years leaves into untidy slag.

A weary Gull struts centre stage and
the heavy footed dance begins;
hobnails softened on the heads of worms.

Dark under Rhododendron cover Boris
watches all with a commando crawl,
a black cloud oozing forward as
whiskers whip back the crowds.

A disgusted banging razes all hope;
only still and silent remain whilst
the warm imprint of the hand of God
fades slowly inwards from the sky.

In the bathroom I shave the frown
from my face; lighter now that
I don’t see myself staring back.

Outside, courage tickles away
tightness from bellies as
they lurk outside my world.

Tweet Tweet

birds rise early
to micro blog the morning –
new dawn for old

Hugging the Devil

It’s funny how you can become that which you hate the most.

Sit with a murderer all day long and you’ll want to kill them.

This can happen only if you are the object of their hate.

Then, of course, it is not murder but only  self-defence.

Love works in the same way; powerfully yet  slow.

This is why a good priest will at first sit outside the cage,

watching carefully, waiting for the bars to bend in his favour.

For only then may he enter and safely hug the devil.

Hedging

flailed white sticks
of the winter beech hedge –
my shattered nerves

The Silence of a Dry Twig

A dry twig off the old branch
of the long dead oak tree,
that stands alone against
the slow outside curve of the
more than man deep stream.

A dry twig held in two clean
fingers and an everyday thumb
chambers the silence inside,
the prize of the noisy mind
that now pushes skin on wood.

A dry twig cracks its silence out
freezing rustling feet and closing
cheeping beaks; soothing wind,
water and thought into a single
image that stops the clacking clock.

A dry twig severed and emptied
discarded on the muddy bank,
is tidied away to the magpies
nest high in the dead oak tree
where silence rarely falls.

Channelled

i
Freedom is a White Dot.
In a state where even thought is vicarious, broadcast
wholesale, there is no struggle. No freedom fighters.

The free are seen every day, hidden only by last years drab.
Backgrounders; talking, playing, sitting almost off camera.
An underground of conscientious objectors; questioning.

Continue reading »

Loose Fruit

tangerine orange
rolling across the tarmac
grab it and run
my juicy wish fulfilment
or return for a smile

Evolution: Birth of Medusa

From a worm, wiggling in the bed of the Med,

to a sperm, banging my head on an egg.

Behold the evolved: a sperm with a perm.

Angry at life, what a fight for my right yet

not lying dead with the rest but the next.

Long curls at my birth, a mop on my top,

there’s some debate: It just isn’t straight.

A cheer, and some tears, and then sneers.

Their fear is clear, two sticks quickly click.

It is licked.  A woollen bonnet lies upon it.

With a flick and a nip the curls are on it,

sentient dreads shred the pestilent threads.

Their hand-made fleece is in pieces

but there are no moans; they are stone.

All dead, standing at the bed of their Med.

Apple Schnapps

I am rotten.
An apple on the edge,
at the very top of
my oak sided barrel.

I am drunk.
With my own dark ooze.
This juicy fermentation
trickles down to those below.

I am manner.
Wasps fight for the ripe,
nibbling at my soft flesh.
Stinging the hand of god.

I am patient.
Crushed and bled dry,
pigs scoff on my core.
My essence distils slowly.

I am power.
In the voice of your youth,
renewed strength in his arm.
Fuel for your weakened mind.

I am death.
The impulse of a thousand
stabs and cuts or tightened fists.
My enemies fight on my command.