it’s not all write
to write to a theme
or to a prompt
is to bastardise one’s art
to compete for a glittering prize
is to prostitute one’s art
spontaneity brings tomorrow today
the roof of a cavern collapsing
into a subterranean river
sunshine and all
in every facet of a precious stone
the fun of poetry is its life force
or so the poem wrote
fingering a moment’s moment
steam clears and spells dream
the same dream’s breath
that mists the window where
a finger writes yes
followed by an emoji
as real tears blink
taking it all in
two eyes a nose a smile follow
but the moment has gone to work
for there is work to do on this
and it could take all day
and we only have this moment
that statue you
that statue of me
that will never be
what pose what prose
would it be
that said
‘he did this’
or that of me for
he believed his plinth was finished
but time had over-stepped the mark
the scattered pigeons returned to base
it appears that shit happens prosaically
Schrödinger's question
Schrödinger's dog
is dreaming about
Schrödinger's cat
is dreaming about
Schrödinger's dog
would you have to wake both
to ascertain who fell asleep first
you or the question
that is one cat and dog of a tail
the kiss
as they kiss
long under the racing moon
the world could go to hell
for it had gone to hell
all the far away moons had clouded over
a shiver came on a wind
from somewhere far away
a light came on and went out
came on and went out
as their kiss went on for ever
breakfasting on march
you can count on daffodils
all the fingers of a spring’s day
nodding through the passings
the illuminating of a sunbeam
by a mirage of midges
up down and the certainty of
the vermillion of the hellebores
under the skirts of a hedge
the knowing of a real morning
the ptosis of an early feast with
a year still wet behind the ears
dew i do love you when you return like this
with your promises of another kiss
under the apple with me
oh my word
words can gang up on a word
until that word tops a mountain
other words are swept away
in the flood of its reign
supreme is the word that other words stream around
the wind that turns the page
whispers that word over and over
the thesaurus weeps blood
it is heart-stopping
scars
stop grizzling
or so help me
you’ll feel the back of my hand
a scar from the past
on skin’s bark laid bare
dragging winsomely
this one does share
all the ages of my time
the dawn chorus
eyes shocked open
that trill before it dawns
the robin calling on you
it’s here
the sun is here
even behind the clouds
it’s here i tell you
it’s here
i am here
come on sleepy head
let’s let it run away with is
tra
la la
la la
down nanna’s house
just inside the door
on the right was the dark pantry
cold marble shelf and a white bowl
in the room opposite was a radiogram
large armchairs in a too-small room
behind which were piles of
in the front room with the three windows
was a large dining table with two bachelor brothers
HP sauce and dinner brought by their married sisters
assaulted with sadness the seasoning of their days
in the house ‘down the house’
below the park below the hillside
overlooking the docks these seamen
back room was the kitchen with a fire with a back boiler
the understairs space where the cat had her kittens
before the sackman arrived
the docks murmured upstairs from across the sidings
over the long bridge of a childhood’s widening eyes
the cranes did their thing
the perspective was cut in gold
on the black marble shelf in the window
of the Home and Colonial Stores
opposite Chapman’s the milliners
with the yellow pull-down sun blind
over there lived the indian ship-jumpers
their incongruous headstones facing mecca
nanna died to follow grandpa
my mum and her sister did for the boys
every tuesday and thursday they did
and me and my cousins janet did things
in the park where there were swings and things
over the fence behind the gooseberry bushes
she is dead now
and the sisters
and the brothers
the docks is also dead
and things
laugh ~ i nearly died
after a hospital death
the bereavement liaison man
with a soft voice
i longed to crack a joke
he just seemed so sad
all the euphemisms
were laying in state
in the ‘chapel of rest’
by appointment only
writing
is
simply
bubbles popping
on the surface of life
from the depths of life
dark lights the darkness
resuscitation of the spirit
by a wisp unbidden
settling on the page
a deep beacon calls
thoughts come
popping along the line
of such a thought
unbidden we say
we do their bidding
