not at all

 not at all

the body of a work

laid there waiting for

the violation of misunderstanding 

i can understand that now

it was not meant was it

what we thought it meant

but perhaps it does now

and that is not what was meant

at all

a swirl of thoughtlessness

 a swirl of thoughtlessness

tornadoes

on the other side of the world

and i am not wound up

what is wrong with me

how close does it need to be

to me for me

to stir from the tv images

and wipe the steam from the windows

writing this poem

helps me relax

i think

of other things

i think

"Spud Murphys"

 "Spud Murphys" 

we called them 

when we were kids

we never famined why

we were never shy

as cowboys to kill Indians 

to play at war ~ schnell schnell !!

when the chips were down

it was just salt and vinegar

we never went without

except for contrition 

the trinity and she

 defibrillator 

outside the catholic church 

holy mary mother of god 

  one two three four

holy mary mother of god 

  one two three four

stop singing

 along the line of singers

of a classroom exposed

a tap on a shoulder

~ stop singing ~ 

mime the chew of

what poetry could be

was and

was not

to be

if only

 if  only

life’s canvas

a few spots   here  and  there

most of the paint running up my arms

like a split wrist exsanguinates time

like an astringent blears eyes   not tears

not an eye lash  but the whip

of a salted wound seared

across a back bent to plough

the furrow chosen by a bowed head 

never to be raised again to any horizon

this side of the rainbowed palette

the proverbial pot of gold

finger-tipped and splt-nailed slowly 

oh ever so bloody slowly down 

the wall of       well i nearly did

and i could have  could have   if only

if only i did not say 

  if

dawn and dusk

 dawn

the crab darkness

hurries into the trees

walk me to the moon and back

be quick now please

for every look up from my tea

sees a lightness to your touch

that stops in its rising as the mist

is damp on the cobblestones 

damp on the seats in the garden

i can see them now   just

the white hair of last summer’s

lobelia tussled in a blue pot

ivy moving to the touch of a blackbird

the cat is in and licking the night away

to the soft music of all this

fluttering of the hazel’s last leaves

a drip     drops

morning has arrived

dawn is now a dunnock

pecking pecking 

away with you

coffee soon

dusk

draining away

through the breach in the wall of day

all colour in the stilling wind

dropping soft in the backwarding

sluiced in the closing

they have gone the birds

nothing moves

the night things wait the closing

of the only flowers 

a light pops on in the distance

the sigh of a rising moon

                there

it is done