the ordinary poet gets overlooked

 the ordinary poet gets overlooked

for he/she is not a member of a minority

physically 

emotionally 

genderally 

psychologically 

ethnically

you name it ally ally ally

the ordinary poet gets overlooked

nothing to see here

just her/his words

move along 

nothing odd

nothing to see

move along now 

just an ordinary poet

who may be saying extraordinary things 

but they are unrecognisable as originating from a minority

a minority that surely must exemplify the extraordinary 

what else 

to the ordinary reader

the ordinary plebeian

move me along now

if these words do not move you 

if neither you or me are extraordinary 

the ordinary poet will always be overlooked

by the ordinary reader 

now isn’t that extraordinary 

well cut off my legs and call me shorty

(my dad used to say that)

extraordinary 

wendy in the art fair

 wendy in the art fair

is one’s mind reshaped by sculpture

do the neurones in an excited state

reconvene in a novel shape

that thoughts are so enchanted changed

and all the world is quantum shifted in

that entanglement of viewer and viewed

you tell me

take another look

‘do not touch!’

go on i dare you

autumn

 autumn

slowly in the slowly aisles

the leaves are in their turning

with fine threads spinning thoughts

of teas poured long down shadows golden

the forecast of storm arriving late in the trees

that have waited long these darkening hours

specks of rain on upward leaves 

falling down the light

smeary the rain panes are running now

distorting all the flowers in the yard

that are refusing to go over

it is all so amusing

how the sky is running like dogged sheep 

when all around is a shivering blanket 

drawing the day closer now as a

spark to the hearth is bearing

turns the month closer now to

winter’s claim foreshortening 

to the end of the year

at the end of the year

there are apples still for stewing

         ‘play it sam 

               play

      as time goes by’

of course it is all over

 of course it is all over

we have been in denial for ever

how to lengthen our final days

no one tells us that

yet

where is our diluvian ark

either there isn’t one

or we are in the storage queue

for a boat that has departed 

of course it is all over

drain

 drain

and you will cross it where i tell you 

the road on your journey through life

predetermined 

perfunctory somnambulism 

there is no point in railing a sign

the detour is also predetermined 

get used to the rain 

reflect on the pools 

it maybe the only choice you have

dementia ?

 dementia ?

ultimately all there is 

are the thoughts running under the earth

the calcite words formed from the oozing of life

the lanterns flickering where no light is

suddenly flare in the draught from a door

opened and slammed 

shut

momentarily a moment

is gone

the solitary sanitary man

 

 the solitary sanitary man 

there’s a man

with a van

who has a shoulder bag

sort of sealed it is and dual-coloured

well this man goes around

in his van

to all the places that are frequented by a woman

and he goes to receptacle and removes a sealed unit

and he replaces it with a sealed unit

or so i have been told

although he goes around each week

the contents are shed every month

at the end of the endometrium 

obviously his weekly synchronicity is due to their asynchronicity 

with the moon cramped on the waters that are blood red

at the sunset of his reason is his need for a salary

to support his partner’s lunar synchronicity 

funny job his mates say

collecting jam rags (school bags ~ ha ha)

but someone has to do it

and the pheromones are hermetically sealed

or so he believes 

flushed of face as he rushes around his round

and around he goes as life goes round 

endometrium is a funny name for a race horse

but this van jockey wears the livery of commerce

green chosen for its insouciance but

someone has to pay for the dam on the lake of blood moon

he doesn’t say much the solitary sanitary man 

plod plod plod around he goes pad pad pad

well someone has to do it when they do it

don’t they

strange how many rivers run beneath our feet

must be hidden from view 

someone decided 

the clod

 the clod

a child turns a clod

beside the warm wall

out spill the sun beetles

the eggs of pallor

sometimes a devil’s coach horse

sometime a stag beetle jumps

the child backwards 

until another clod spills

but not yet the urge to capture

to jam jar the prizes

for now the child’s eyes are as free

as the the four corners of escape

centipede millipede 

the words writhe

crumble like the soil 

from the tussled clod

the child has enough soil

to fingernail home

to smudge in the day’s book

the colour of an explosion

dearth

 dearth 

death is born with us

it is of us

it belongs to us

and it dies when we do

death is the

non-existent bookends

that spill the butterflies days

it is the shell of the pupa

the dust on a broken wing

when the luminescence dries

it is the closing of the sunset’s eye