Bear the ills of weary world,
Know the creep of quiet rage,
Feel the smudge of youth to old,
And smooth the grain of age.
Carry high past ways of youth,
Raise smile-worn weathered flag,
To shoulderhold the uncouth gale,
And navigate the rocky crags.
Know well this turn of time -
Hold each minute like a tiny jewel.
Begin again the spring and wind,
Then win prize of age’s tired duel.
Our joy awoke
and drank
the world in one.
Shared the air
with lungs like
unfurling wings,
sending heartbeat
cries around
the world.
Nestled and rolled,
curling like paper
handmade
by caring souls.
But strong,
like a wild foal
already tall
in utterance
of love.
(For Jared Daniel).
Let us talk
about the stars,
and where we fit within
the vista of being.
In which, we go naked -
skinnydipping existance
diving deep
for miraged pearls
in the sea
of who we are.
Let us close our eyes
and dream
of other things,
of happenstance beyond
the dull thud,
the daily numb
of common ways.
Let us meditate
on awakening.
Let us reel-in
the swirling cosmos,
hold its beauty
like snowdust
in our hands,
raise the soma
of life itself
to our lips,
and whisper.
Let us …
understand.
Somewhere,
there is a template.
A way of doing,
tested and tried,
laid out neatly
for people like us.
A blueprint showing
how to tackle situations
and tricky circumstance
thrown in our way.
There must be an overlay.
Mappped against the day -
scribbled with marks,
showing at least
the edges or the corners
pointing out measurements
of the challenges we face.
But, where is this process?
Where is this mislaid key
prising the locks
of confusion,
and knowing
our next
mistake?
Ask your friends,
maybe they will know.
Is he a man?
Or is he a figment?
Like the glint in a raindrop falling
from the lost tail of a speeding satellite?
He soars - acres high, up, above crown of land
like a proud beekeeper ushering safe return
of eve-time honey dance in costumed night.
Us, lost in starmist now beaconed through
to dusk-smudged earth below his subtle touch
that reaches dust, of mortal ground.
Is he a man? A spirit? A dream?
Who knows this truth but he,
who has power to roll tides,
to move minds of lunatic or child.
Even calm midnight doubt of poets
holding shadows back to see his glow
that steals away the clumsy thump of fate.
This hero’s light! It illuminates,
it shows us footholds in the night.
He is all, to all that seek
to know.
Away palid sirens
And playground harpies
That tease and clutch
Your unworn soul.
Begone such cruel bringers
Of growth’s nag and poke
And innocence ground
In circumstance beyond.
Forget their shrill voiced
Cries and winsome pangs
And crack’d tears -
And shudderings of age.
Be strong, my quiet one
Though humble and bruised
Still, like a first fallen pear
Brave in dawn-lost day.
You give wind to us
Amidst doubter’s lull
Becalmed by spite
But pushed along.
He liked aubergines.
Not just for the taste -
but also for their look and shape
like silk bells stroked by moonlight
in extacious growth.
He loved their colour too
like the edges of neon in rain
or passion in the summer dusk.
Curved like a marble womb
in the palm of his hand.
Yes, he liked aubergines,
and so do I.
Like distant slide
from crown of mountain slip
into very pit of who I am.
Here is vertigo for cliff-edged
hearts like yours that tip-toe
ankle winds.
There,
clutching gravity’s stall
of bloodstream rush,
like freshwater dashed in magnet dance
you move as particles
swirling toward the iron lips
of polar sea.
Through permafrost
and frozen root, gulley cut
and porous bed - the centre
to the core, traveling deep
within sediment soul,
and onto icepools
that only you
can thaw.
I crave soft-armed
cradle of you, holding
us dispersed on froth
of season’s roll.
You know so well
how to raise our
stopdrift souls,
lift eyes above
the cold horizon.
Like a puppeteer
placing strings -
upon his things,
with twist of wire
and raise of armiture.
Us; the shorebound
scarred and dry.
Tattered fabric
jellyfish marooned
at the bottom
of a box festooned
and waiting,
for a show
of tide.
I got in the car,
and he said to me;
“Do you believe in infinity?”
We headed off as he grinned in glee,
and drove a thousand miles per hour
down a one-way street.
Sometimes,
my body is distinct from my mind.
Like a distant robot operating
on boot sector instinct.
There I am, stretching for a drink,
but thinking not of reach or grip
just seeing glass and wine.
Or then, I’m keying the lock
but thinking of home inside
not oiled parts and traffic grime.
Odd that.
Time is the leak you cannot fix
Seeping over meniscus edge
Like muddied ice in stubborn push
Slowly notching marks of us.
Plucked like frets and string
Scratch-scretched and resonating
As waves that flow through sky
In search for sands of you and I.
Shorter than a newborn’s thumb
Curled and clutched like tiger frond
Mewed to world and catching dew
Time falls slow on me and you.