Friday, 18 August 2017

Womb sea Tomb sea


From the womb of the sea,
when the waters break,
deliver me safely to the shore,
and I will suckle the cradling sun.

When a silver lining splits the shine,
on the ebb and flow of tears and joy,
the happiness bell is calling, calling:
It's a buoy. It's a buoy. It's a buoy. 

And safe upon that bank of sand,
draw down the busy world,
writ with stick-lines insistent,
sacrificing time to the erasing tide.

Gaze upon the soft horizon, constant
through the ages of child to man,
and of man back to child again,
in calm and storm and calm.

Then long upon a moon tomb sea,
in a rip upon an ebb tide's race,
weigh the anchor of my soul, and
I will sink in the west with the sun.


From the womb of the sea,
when the waters break,
deliver me safely to the shore,
and I will suckle the cradling sun.

Thursday, 17 August 2017

Midlife meiosis


I am the fulcrum of a seesaw.
See, on the up side, scions ride.
Saw upon the down side,
there my ancestors bide.
Reminded of the tombstones,
that topple in the ebbing tide,
to shorten the downside lever,
and propel my scions rise, and rise.

As my fulcrum slips towards twilight,
the scions shriek delight,
for down they ride, bump bump down,
as their ancestors drop aside.
Then as the penultimate fulcrum,
slips abject from the pole,
so my fulcrum slips into the night,
as he takes on this pivotal role.

Instead of a fulcrum, it seems to me,
I am now a spindle in a wheel,
for spinning all around me,
are my scions gazing in,
as I peel off into the void.
  Slows down, and slows down,
becomes their seesaw again, 
as another fulcrum strong,
smiles upon its life of strain.

Caterpillar-like this seesaw track,
is making, breaking, unchanging length,
the spring of life on the one side,
as dotages drops off from the ride.

Oh what joy to have been a fulcrum,
to have balanced my time of life.
But, actually, it's a binary pivot,
designed for a husband and his wife.

Wednesday, 16 August 2017

Hi Sea


Where's the sea?
Inside of me.
Wear the sea
upon me.
Whatever the sea,
it weathers me,
and breaks in wave
over my grave.
Love forever sea.

Tuesday, 15 August 2017

hospital gate syndrome


read my genome
do a CT scan
positron emission 
stress ECG

or an EEG

X-Ray chest
body scan
do every blood(y) test 
known to man

test my breathing
dab my stools
dip my pee
sample my drools

hold it


  oh I see
  what WHAT
is hammering 

weigh me
mark my height 
photograph my gait
then MRI

open and close
a stitch in time
inject some dye
I'm turning morose
and don't give a dime
for my prognose
blood transfuse
don't refuse
a transplant or two
before you

anaesthetise me
for an ECT
or better still
some CBT
I seem to be
a b_bit shaky
tell me now
would you prefer
an endoscope up 
an endoscope down
anal retentive 
let's really go to town

cough twice
cardiac surgery
a stent for lent
or a cardiac bypass
on the road to ruin 
of my family tree
genetic counselling 
xxx my arse
you'll never know me
cos you see

they're coming to take me away 
ha ha - ha ha
hee hee - hee hee

but you've lots of data
to remember me
when finally
I can


Check out my Early August Diary on SNN

Saturday, 12 August 2017

The swimmer in winter


Lanyard, seaward, tethered to tide,
the swimmer standing tall.
Owns the slanting day down beach,
and the high sea's sky. That's all.

That's all there is. No secret,
in the knots running spate,
that ebb and flow, instilled
of whether to or not. The fate

of a swimmer in winter facing down
the wind that hiss-spits in his face.
Armfuls of horizon, cutlass grey,
snow gulls tumbling down in grace.

The ocean vehement,
shouldered in towering,
banshee in screams, wild
in glaring, growling, glowering,
a predatory wolf in a skein of sky.
Unfaltering waves, icy in solemnity confirm,
when ensnared in snarls, and gritted by both sides,
they steadfastly refuse to squirm,
or slip their lanyard, tethering tides.