un-happenstance

un-happenstance

when will you happen?

why don’t you happen?

and put us all out of our misery, and

join us together in that dunkirk spirit,

or, go on! fling us to the wilds 

of:

war 

   famine 

    disease 

      drought 

        global warming 

          social dissociation 

            dislocation

               and on and on and on

come on!

get it over with you .. you ... you ....

bloody fool!

you are all around us, 

  behind us, 

    in front of us,

we are waiting for your knife 

so that we can join hands to 

stem the blood, 

  to caress the wounded,

    heal the rift,

      to be that utopia again,

that i am sure we once were;

weren’t we?

 but when will you happen?

why don’t you happen?

why don’t you?

why?

curtains

what stirs my curtains is just right,

to keep me cool throughout the night;

not too little to drop them shut,

not too much to blow them wild, but

just enough from night’s chill child,

so I can feel him running wild;

in sleep the stars’ wincey shine,

and moon-blink upon me, all is fine.

sunday morning

sunday morning

the morning slow, the morning slow,
slowly flow the early people,
sun pale creeping 
through the autumn leaves,
that sleep off sunday beds
eyes that weep along 
the long low shadows,
of a day that stirs so slowly
that we are aminded to ask,
why are we here at all?

lunch is that time of day

lunch is that time of day

dogs and diners (woof & mmm) in welcome

at Croeso Lounge, dressed in the Mumbles;

both murmur in rich conversations,

food for thought that rides upon the tides,

flirting with the world that promenades by.

the table talks to the poet,

the poet says to the dog owner:

 "what’s his name?"

only to be told she’s (SHE’s!) called x y z,

but in such a way are not conversations led?

that end up in wide smiles, that are yours 

down the afternoon of this wordy way:

oh lordy, lordy me, how the day spins down,

suffuses another coffee steaming halo
over all these lovely people who smile
and watermark my life slow spun down,

until Croeso welcomes me back here again,

to talk poetry and write lines such as these,
until the moon comes home with cold tears,
and the sun tucks us away, in a day that has
been a day such as dreams are made of.
my oh my, oh my.

look! is that the loving cup?

look! is that the loving cup?

last lime leeched the village mortar;

the child crosses the boundary road

onto the scales of adulthood; asking

‘will i be found wanting?’ 
for, the door ajar, and with his pals, 
he is peering in disbelief;

the songs were true!

‘there is an uplands here’

above the dark times, 
the chains of a childhood penury;

the tears have crystallised into

a shine that dazzles any attempt to 

look into the distance, (or black back) 
and all that matters is that 
the door stays ajar 

for just a wee while longer 
in case we need to come back home 
for tea and cakes, just one more time.

momento fragmento

momento fragmento 

when the sea is in the sky

and waves murmur through my eye

to weep upon the music pure and quiet

and nature is revealed as the real poet

sing the sleep of wide awake

ponder which road to take

to the hoard of real fools gold

where the truth about truth be told

and where that wool wraps us linger

blessed by the poet’s finger

brailled upon the lines of life

be they death or sharp as knife

pinioned moth in the collector’s drawer

covered in dust and faded with awe

what web of words did this to me

entrapped in death the life of poetry

mourning is broken

mourning is broken

there is not a breath of wind

no clouds snagged on the barbed wire sky

blue but torn spilling stuffing jet-trails

that rip the silence of the wake

for a day we may never see again