Sunday, 22 October 2017

Dream Poem 51; Arsenic green

A yard sale
In mums back garden
We have been preparing for months
Bits of kid’s play furniture and the like
We are using the back garden gate
to move things in and out
inside an old kitchen used for school dinners.

The kind with a gas hob
and huge oversized giant utensils,
pans and pots it is deserted and empty
and everything in it is cracked, faded, very used and old,
not in its prime,
from another time,
still serviceable but showing its age.

The whole kitchen has a feeling of faded glory and neglect.
Cavernous as if I am a small child
and it is a huge echoing room

darkened in shades of Arsenic green and cerulean blue. 

Saturday, 21 October 2017

Dream Poem 55: Keep Paddling

Teaching paddling, I’m teaching a small new group
We are in America
we drop the car in a car park and get an inflatable dinghy at the dock.
I’m in charge.
I paddle it to an historic part of town,
we go look round an old house museum and there are actors
dressed up in Victorian costume, we can ask them questions about living in the house.
There is a Dad in black and a top hat,
some children they sit on a stool and we can question them.

There is a protected bay near the shops.
We are in the dinghy again, I point out to sea,
it is really choppy.
Paddling around the bay we come out of the protected area
into what is now quite a wild wild sea.
I tell everyone to hold on.

It is very rough water and difficult paddling
but we manage to get through.
Then the sky goes suddenly dark
yet we haven’t arrived back at to the car park and our car,
I don’t know where I am going,
it seems to be taking longer to get back than I realize.

Floating are wrecked dinghies, old lockers and debris swept off the shore line
from the town we have just been to,
broken things float in the water
and I keep paddling thinking,
we are in the Atlantic now and very deep water and probably sharks and big fish under the boat.

but I keep paddling,
I’m in charge and I’m scared
it is fully dark
and I have to navigate all this floating furniture
in the dark,
I’m so distraught and anxious
about getting back to the car, I think to myself,

Just keep paddling.

Thursday, 19 October 2017

Grief Like a Curled Fist 

Grief like a curled fist strike ready like an unfurled fiddle fern
And all it takes
Is the sun
It blossoms unexpectedly
Full of mirthless laughter
Furl your fist once more
I want to enjoy the sun
I want it to give me strength
Not suck me down into quick sand
I will stand on the edge
I will let it wash and ebb over me

And I will stand yet.


Here in this place
Heels kick and beats brew
Here in this place

Language spoken time and true.

Wednesday, 18 October 2017

Icon gold

God is reflected in the gold and God is reflected in everything.
The fogbank and the gold
Gold of heaven
Gold of Ophir
Gold of infinite space

Mists of presence
Light of memory
Shadows of infinite space

The paintbrush on the glaze
The gold leaf, the size
Between the gold and the paint

In the water glass glaze
And the matt sheen gleam of gold

The forgetful reflexivity of gold
The infinite space and the true presence
How much longer will time rule my day and night
Show me a glimpse of that timeless place
Peace and rest.
In the gold.

Dream Poem 57: Inexorably

Preparation time alone.
I’ve been here before,
These places are familiar to me
As familiar as routine.
These people are archetypes, the children, the older people
I’ve met them before.

I’m outside
In the fresh air
Standing by the car waiting

Things have changed and changed again
And what was once the norm
No longer is so
Through this change the story moves on

I am standing up
I speak a word very loudly
It is full colour.

Like Water in Reverse

Leaves flowing across the road
a restless tide of maple coloured syrup.
Stray side wind
that whisks dead leaves into her arms,
Fills her cheeks and kiss blows them
across a zebra crossing in bright sunlight.

Down Swinnow Road she tosses the leaves up high
An amber murmuration
Hurled the height of a caramel sandstone rail-bridge
they catches the sun like golden confetti.
Honey coloured lentoid lights against the black of the bridge interior
all dark shadows under the pigeon inhabited vault.

And further along the road where the Merry Monk was
A torrent of leaves pour up a hill, like weir water in reverse

strong, flowing, ripulous ripples of russet, burnt orange and cinnamon.