Stars

Another late train,
empty.

I sit and softly touch my temple
then interlock fingers
like armour
stopping human touch.

Out I gaze now, up and into
a cradle of stars, disconnected.

You have no warmth, distant sparks

but I remember a son
who knows the worth
of a twinkle, hug;
a pull towards
True North.

Self Image

I keep seeing a flat guy who looks like a mural

but he moves away quickly whenever I glance.

 

He’s a person in 2D, a pancake-like monkey,

a plane of a character, ghostly cartoon.

 

You could call him a doodle on a smooth piece of paper;

it’s like he’s been ironed and left in the frost.

 

I glimpse him in mirrors, from glass in shop windows

and other folk’s spectacles, catching me out.

 

Look

above the special card

  a hand but chubby and with butter-fingers loose

             the pen like a small bludgeon

 and lines

from unstable tip gross erratic drawled

and no Big Word

                            but truth

                       full of kisses funny

                           wobbles  “ Happy Day!! With lots of Andrew!”

 

Handicapped son

Electricity in a barren hotel

suddenly illuminates.

Last week, my first son shone brightly

but now I can’t perceive his light. He’s gone.   

 

It’s a pang to not connect

by levels unbeknown like

eyes, hands, laughter, song, touch.

Bring it on,

a spark, a gleam, magnetic pole;

isn’t that what we came for:

to feel for spots of warmth in icy caves?

Isn’t that the lesson from a special boy

who doesn’t buy the goods of business, husband, father

and rather would play one part here? 

A seer.

A seer into embers,

melting stone, turning ice to tears of light, laughter

wielding nothing more than natural magic.

 

My trick is to carry the joy

in memory, because that helps

a bit,

to lift the mechanical world, Newton’s physics,

boring cause-effects and all mentality

into the poetic, philosophic, myth and extraordinary.

I never am with anyone all the time

or really with myself all the time,

I am a handicapped son.

But there are spots in space and time

when it’s OK,

when a heart is strong and tender,

when iron runs red,

when ice melts

and flows like

electricity.

 

A Spring

evening stills;

trees - wetted with rain -

stand and face a  purple sun.

 

Listen to calls

pulse - a swell of birds

flickering nuances

cooing, echoing

beating little hearts

 

(inside my skull

I also am wittering and twittering)

 

Overhead; leaves lurch

wave on turning ocean wave

beckoning light: moving church,

urging Nature, lusting life.

In between us

it starts with a tickle;

in the belly,

nebula.

            It ends with a poke

            between two ribs

            and a husky giggle.

 

It starts with a flash

of a sideways eye;

a tiny smile.

            It ends with a lean;

            the slightest fall

            and a body-check.

 

Its starts with a pulse

through a softer drum;

an urge to move.

            It ends in a leap

            to a standing pose

            and a crazy dance.

 

It starts with heat

in a burgeoning core

rising, rising.

            It ends with a word,

            soft clear magma,

            melting eyes.

In the front seat

first thing:

sing Hickory Dickory Dock

and find shock words to rhyme

with 1 2 3

like bum, poo, pee.

 

Second thing:

wind down a window,

laugh shoulders

at brothers getting cold

and wet with rain.

 

Third thing:

thump me on the arm,

and warm with a smile

‘You OK Dad?’ and I reply ‘Yes, you OK?’

face ahead, say ‘Fine’.

 

Fourth thing:

look sidelong from a knowing eye

as if you clock what’s going on;

that you know I know when I nod back,

that, yes, I get it, this lifetime,

your Work.