peradventure

 peradventure 

smoothing the cat

we leave the solar system

she is steering the lap ship enterprise

engage purr factor four 

synchronise breathing 

jazz music softly fills the sails

on a stanchion of the solar wind

upon the twitching of her ears

the whisker antennae turn

but the immobility is transient

the force field is rent asunder

we jump ship 

i make tea

she licks her plate clean

with my hand upon the door handle

the galaxy turns upon its axis

doubling as a singularity

we cross the event horizon

ahh pussy cat

pussy cat

what a pair of doppelgängers 

we really are

the seasoning of times

 the seasoning of times 

the seasons

we reach for the scenes of nature

to capture the feelings we have 

when all the subliminal sensations gather 

to create that life moment

the moment when we are alive to the emotions of now

we look to nature both to place us in that moment

to describe that moment

to explain that moment

we call it poetry 

when we write down our attempt to capture the moment

to be lost in the finding of being lost in the nature of that moment

and we call that the seasoning of times

for it is natural that we are almost lost for words

the would from the trees

 the would from the trees

fallen

from conversations of the forest

no longer a tree

blocks the path

truth chooses another way

predestination remains

just that

note the saplings nodding

whatever the direction of the wind

prevailing their will

the one and only sun transverses

the seasons come and go

through the morning window

 through the morning window

above the grape hyacinths 

proudly the corkscrew hazel opens

beneath the flowering cherry’s dazzle

between them glows the sedate camelia

to the left of an errant flowering currant 

further to the right find the forsythia bright

under all of these a rose well on its way

next to the azalea that is about to explode

but the daffodils have gone over now

blue bells and lily of the valley will follow suit

so subtle in undertones the lavender moves

and far the japanese anemones slowly grow

all off to a goodly start are

the potted geraniums

the lobelia the hardy daisy yellow 

soon soon oh soon my beloved will come 

to my garden and sit with me

the tenuousness of stretched time

 the tenuousness of stretched time

recounting

embarkation leave

a doleful ring to his voice 

embrocation 

rang in my mind

ne’er the twain shall meet 

across the cleft between war and peace

my uncle 

torpedoed off ireland 

one week survivor’s leave

that doleful ring to his voice 

incendiary bomb 

he climbed through the window onto the roof 

down the house near the docks

a close call

from across the water

i did that 

ringing in his voice

a true hollowness

of times that forgot to be forgotten 

when the exclamation of oh no was done

the armies in their theatres

the navies on the seas

the airmen of the sky’s limits

the loneliness of the scapa flows

where everyone knows 

someone who was stationed there

recounting in their particular voice

the dolefulness of times long past recounting

now that their time is done

how hollow they ring

despite the tears that fall

sparking in the matt nights of grief

how that embrocation stings now

but then the gulf swallowed all

let’s play cowboys and indians 

in reply to a poem that compared a shed to a train

 in reply to a poem that compared a shed to a train

the same fly in the window

of a shared train of thought

the same peripatetic spider

hiding higher riding hither 

and thither me timbers jim lad

they have pirated my posts

and become their own hosts 

on the runaway media 

of these slithering rhymes

the one

 the one

oh to be a standing stone

alone when the wind blows

and the rain flows

shining on a morning

or under a high moon

when the frost tickles

and the standing stone

cannot stand it 

a laugh embedded deep

in the histrionics of it all

poet me not

 poet me not

today

a true poet

thinks that the poem 

written yesterday 

which was the best poem ever

is actually crap

for a true poet

there is always tomorrow 

even if that poem will be their obituary

the artists and poets of wars

 the artists and poets of wars

borne witness 

a weight not born unto

but in servitude to

they carried it for us

the looking and the seeing

beyond the pain 

beyond the smoked pane

obscured by the bloods of war

they went

they told

and they   died

falling falling

falling falling 

sometimes

after they have written and

recited just a few words

our eyes blear and we are

falling falling 

into the distance of the past

falling falling 

their words a backdrop

to the stage of a replay

of the euphemisms of memory

and like kids around the maypole

we jingle 

just be caws

 just be caws 

the raven looks

down on the rooks

who look down 

on the jackdaws in town

who jostle the crows 

but none of them knows

where the wren goes 

when it snows and snows

on the frozen brooks

when the sun goes down

be caws be caws

well just because