faces

the expressionless face

hides behind the door –

her elbows and knees

fall below to the floor

the expressionate face

the centre of now –

his body and soul

climbing high from the bough

the facade takes the place

of the expressionless face

and picks herself up

by the door from the floor

the centre of now

shares facade’s dream

declaring themselves

more alive than they seem

fuss and nonsense

Fuss and Nonsense went to the bay

leaving Grumpy and Difficult at home to stay

they went to sit down on the beach on the sand

until Fuss said to Nonsense; I’d much rather stand

Nonsense misheard what Fuss had to say

and sat on the sand on the beach at the bay

Fuss turned her head to a mighty foul sound

it was Grumpy approaching and shouting out loud

I’ve come to spread torpor and to wither and fade

I’ve come for a day at the beach in the shade

as Fuss became grumpy and difficult too

she took on a persona depressingly blue

she started to shrink and to shrivel and wilt –

Nonsense caught with a start at the spite Fuss had built

Nonsense could sense an odd feeling impart

so he swam over to Chance who cajoled a fresh start

they talked babble and jabber and twaddle all day

and swam to the new world where they’d canoodle and play

they were free to be flippant and simply have fun –

leaving Fuss and her ‘friends’ in the company of Numb

a poem

I have to print it out to break it down

I have to read again to understand

I separate the lines to see them flow

and build a construct and watch it grow

If everyanything* can be done

and we make a life from one block – two

then somebody’s something we grow to behold

welcoming all and sundry into the fold

In other words positive beats negative down

and words build spirit – life jumps from the page

read aloud or in silence – effect is the same

my friend is poetry – words given a name

*the word ‘everyanything’ comes from E E Cummings’ ‘adult nursery rhyme’ ‘If everything happens that can’t be done’

The grandfather’s chair

Whenever I sit in the grandfather’s chair

I dream what I wish for – that you would be there

in a disorganised muddle – I fuddle about

stumbling on affection – tripping on doubt

yet in your eyes I see a girl –

sweet and serene – as if you’re careening – 

I canoodle and cartwheel as I try to find meaning

we’re the what in the why and the how within showing

as I follow a butterfly on a leaf in a flutter

(like cream rising to top when we mix milk with butter)

you’re my sweet summer sunflower in polk-a-dot dresses

that fall off your shoulder under long flowing tresses

I reach out to touch you with the tip of my finger

on the nape of your neck is where my touch lingers

you are my red and my yellow – my green and my blue

the most wonderful rainbow remaining in view

the butterfly fluttering – always on cue

in the grandfather’s chair I dream only of you

Up or down?

just when a ‘we’

becomes ill-defined

we look up to the valley

and down to the sky                                            

just when an ‘us’

hides behind a facade

we look behind the horizon

and beyond the yard                                           

and we find a ‘why’ and a ‘what’

and a ‘when’ and a ‘how’

as we stumble and fumble

to reach here and now                                        

so a ‘you’ and a ‘me’

can become ‘us’ with glue

and togetherness cries

until ‘we’ make a two                                          

who soar in delight

and ask; ‘how did we do’

stick to ‘us’ known as one

made of ‘me’ and of ‘you’                                  

and just when a ‘we’

is truly defined

we look down to the valley

and up to the sky  

gambolling

hop to it; he says romping bounding and bouncing

springing into the water gambolling from grass

a frolic – your frisky when dancing and prancing

others have left – cavorting – we’re last

when others fail to do what can be done

making nothing of something and neglecting the one

playing and leaping and splashing and dancing

into the water gambolling and prancing

when all others defer we stand alone

cajoling and fondling and showing affect

when others say ‘no’ we say ‘yes’ over again

giving and sharing when others deflect

it’s time; I tell you; it’s up in the air

put your hand in the way – you jump

(it’s life you are catching)

in some sort of trance the others lie sleeping

you spring into the water with a frolic and frisk –

you spring into the water gambolling like this…

This life of I

This life of ‘I’ is a life of ‘am’

and I cannot live gluten-free

sweet embellishments when in your world

and spring will help me pass the brood

she waits with patience – lures longing

too long I thought yet so rewarding

that it would catch me in the race

to fashion feeling’s mirrored face

like a facade spent time perfecting

only to be thrown reflecting

the truer self spent time researching

behind the gestures meant to fray

a (sense) of yes and who I am

a life lived now but one that spans

a (sense) of right and wrong and black and white

defer the build yet spend erecting

one brick then another laid

a truer ‘I’ in life worth living

I can live off your creation

as autumn’s fall is colour’s station

open windows wide on windy days

and batten hatches when it’s warming

you waited for me without fussing

too long I thought yet so rewarding

what if a weep from a willow at will

what if the opposite is true

what if we try something we think we can’t do

what if sentiment blows the mind

what if what’s hidden we finally find

say hello to substance goodbye to void

discard a play-thing no longer a toy

rumble reason – quondam to know

sweet sensibilities from long ago

stumble upon desire at dawn

and leave doom behind like a thunderous storm

spring happy impressions and dance through the night

with sunshine your friend – the wind flying a kite

what if a weep from a willow at will

finds sentiment blowing – her branches stronger until…

the bird, the midgets (and me)

walking down to the train I am followed by no-one

hearing their breath in the middle of spring

turning my head I see a couple –

smiling with force – (feathers from a wing)

of a bird at the back – by the door he lay sleeping

as I push the receptor to enter the station

how do I know the bird cannot fly

or is he simply a part – of my own creation

I go to approach him – but the train has appeared

making grand noises just as I suspected

my thumb and my forefinger touch the tip of his wing

and he splutters his feathers – injured (affected)

he is black as spades with a spatter of whiteness

a magpie perhaps – yet how can I say

yet he silently flutters unsteadily by

barely visible – in the darkness of day

did you see that bird; I say to the couple behind me

as I push harder and faster ahead to the door

they seem very small (almost midgets I thought)

and their voices are squeaky and fall to the floor

I sit on the train on a bench made for sharing

but alone I reside – without concern (without caring)

where goes that bird – flitting about in the tunnel in fury

a life made for one – the source of an ending

yet as I muddle along on the train bound for nowhere

the midgets appear and grow taller than me

we saw that bird; they both say – with a shared smile

and we brought him along so that he could be seen

and treated and cared for and loved and looked after

would you like to join us – that is – if you have time

I’d love to; I say – as we leave the train station

my day passing ridicule on the way to sublime

finer things

we stroll in the air

and she teases and dares

we dance in the sky

and she swims as she bares

her hand holding mine

as the theme-park ride flies

her eyes watching too

as love wanders through

though the garden in summer

struggles to bloom

they’ll be birds of paradise

blossoming soon

orange – green – yellow – blue

her time off – my joy

leaving work well behind

lemon – milk – butter – lime

paraphernalia – colourful times

my heart beating louder

as yearnings arise

the planet forgotten –

the weatherman shines

stealing my sunglasses

off my shoulder in spring

but a few, but a few

of the finest of things