Now,
she glows.
Like a half-closed eye
soil blacked and dust edged,
cupped in the bowl of my palm.
Like the chalky rhodolite glow
of apache tears in the moonlight;
Warm, not burning - just
comfortably luminescent,
remembering the flame.
I watch her noble stand
against my fuel-less hand
and whistle breeze
to kindle thoughts,
of how we
used to
be.
I am pillow bound
to cradle hold
and rest my head
on crumbled ground.
I am willow sound
in river fold
and test my dread
of humble gold.
I am shallows found
in winter’s cold
bad times ahead -
a thousandfold.
Here’s to the Moon!
White skin stretched
and surface tuned
like a drum waiting
for rhythmic palms
and curious eyes.
Just look up
and play!
The Buddha and the Banjo
stand at the foot of a hill
and Banjo says; “I’ll race you” -
so Buddha nods; “You will”
With this the banjo frails
some pattern rolls into the air -
racing Buddha’s wind to mountain top
when he is already there.
Hello blue screen friend
Facing me beyond the glass
With eyes like tent peg holes
Hammered but not holding
The molten spent-wax bowls
Capturing final glow of
Night and time deferred
Poised like patient ornaments
That stare into the firmament
And wait for shooting stars
But sleep before they come.
What goes on in Party Room #1?
Up the three-tiered powder coated stairs
Above the standard frippery
Young mums know of attended fun
And tight banister climb to high-window
Ledged behind the plastic green.
Just take your shoe code -
And present it at the door.
Fresh
mashed
potatoes
with cream
and black
pepper
plus a hint
of chopped
garlic -
built
into a
hill-like
mound then
sprinkled
lavishly with
crushed hazlenuts
or pistachios
and copious cubes
of dolcellata cheese
(any blue will do).
Baked until crusty gold.
and ideally served
with tender Salmon
and sweet chutney -
following a
marijuana
starter .
There, he walks,
towards night polished floors
and fluorescent halls
with open cradled hands
waiting for something more.
His restless sauntering,
from pine-tree car to neon door,
clasped by shocked moon air
through nostrils clipped
like moth-winged frost
and cigarettes.
No-one sees anyone here,
that’s why he comes.
For here is calmed
by nothing more than
pale coffee spills
and empty echo calls -
no distracted solitaire
in this abandoned whale hall.
There is just enough to see
but not enough to hear,
of white noise elevated
above daylight residues
in silent bench and bell.
And now he sits quietly,
like an actor ruminating
over a difficult audition -
re-running all the things
that should be said.
Bottom floor - lowest level,
baggage claim - thinking…
among the reverbed booths.
His question spot -
where confusions disappear,
beyond polite knowing glance
and hollow announcements.
Beyond the awkward entourage
of worry and complication.
Here, just him and the night staff,
invaluable backstage helpers all
moving the props in readiness
for tomorrow.