For Chagall

 

First there were witch-spread rumours of rain

But the long dry draft-drought season suffocated hope

With implacable anaconda-authority’s inexorable ambush certainty.

Mists and histories damped the Spanish moss with lies of dew

An’, breathin’ in your East Side words,

I am twice-stung and damned by those who would, in plain sight,

Kill justice; Denying that fought-for-years-ago oxygen fix of transparency.

While the businessman bully-crow skulks and squawks is venom in

Underground white house towers and no-cause cowards, behind the noble,

Take what was never theirs (Just because they can).

That same old conquistador wind stirs yesterday’s virus words,

Poison papers, embers and echoes of songs about cane on the Brazos .

 

And when I needed a prophet, a word, a dance, a beer

When I needed comfort, the truth, an ear …

 

… And I – no longer supposed to take the knee –

Am struggling for tomorrow’s freedom-air.

None of Them

Picture me –

Amid this turn-taking

Game of random leaders:

Faithless ivory-faced kings,

Holy-roller board extremists,

Sword-wielders in minute-man keeps –

Balancing , desperately on the edge

Of a dangerously spinning wheel,

Waiting for somebody, anybody –

Even the one-eyed queen of reds –

To draw the sanity-humanity card.

But once again, and everywhere I look,

There are only jokers, brokers,

Trapped, frustrated pawns and

 Grim-black suits that hunt in packs. 

Luck may wear six faces:

But none of them is mine.

If You Will

 

Fly the flag,

If you will,

Raise it gently,

But not too high –

Not yet.

Fly the flag,

If you will,

With respect,

Not anger;

Fly it low;

Let the winds

Carry the message.

For there is,

At least a tiny fragment

Of each of us –

A today, a

Yesterday, a tomorrow –

In those three colours

(Or else, in truth, why

Are we in this special place?)

Fly the flag,

If you will,

Without fear,

With no provocation;

In memory of events,

Moreso especially of

Innocents

Who suffered,

Those who are

Suffering still.

Fly the flag if you will:

Know that you fly it for me,

For yourself and

For the futures

Being reckoned.

Even now.

Never Be Seen This Way …

Catching my traffic-snarl’d eye

As I queue for a place on the road

Between a rock and a hard place

I spy, beyond a Victoriana municipality fence,

A tall, slow-motion sky rocket eruption

Of a graceful firework tree.

 

 

It tumbles, turning in gentle stir-by breezes,

Teasing towards its arboretum lake-surfaced twin:

Pale bright green, every sparkle that unwinds

From the centre, arcing out,

Each to its own Nirvana-webb’d route.

Swinging to and fro on

God’s invisible parachute cords.

In a moment the traffic will move me beyond:

This tree will never be seen this way again.

Sound Familiar?

“Culture?

Ain’t worth a damn!”

The headline,

Fine-whine vultures

Twitter, snap and scream

On anon dot com message boards.

“I’ll tell you

What we need:

More golden sovereigns,

Glittering prize pieces of hate;

More soldiers, ultimate weaponry, weaker opposition,”

“More acres, higher yields.

Larger factories, robotic population.”

“More profitable trade,

Above board, beyond the board,

Sleight of hand.”

 “Independence from petty legislation:

Indeed

I need

To be the one

To make the law:

My way

Or go away!”

“To be the one

Who has the say:

“Yes!”

“No!”

“Buy!”

“Sell!”

“Come stand by the fire!”

“Freeze in Hell!”

“Eat!”

“Starve!”

Some of The Ropes and Chains

Every storm has a quiet cradle:

A cell in which I can sit with myself and my shadow;

Rain and wind are doubtless a-coming

But before the tempest noise stirs

We get to read between such lines as we can see.

I look through my own eyes – in these moments –

And into my own eyes, seeing beyond, behind.

We’ve started some big fires to get here,

Jumped into and over others, it’s true

And, after this latest hurricane has

Passed and done some damage

We’ll enjoy a summer garden again.

Yet I cannot escape the feeling that I’ve

Let go of some of the ropes and chains

That have anchored  me

To the valuable past.

And it frightens me.

 

Mixin’

Hangin’ with the fellowship today

Mixing with the global culture’s blood,

Waiting till the price is right

In the early market ‘hood.

Lookin’ at the town hall,

Chisellin’ the stone;

Dreams of expansions,

Designs upon the throne

Along the streets of jumbled pedigree

In the narrow darknesses of the mine,

We recruit militia for the unseen, ceaseless wars

There’s truffles for the swine.

We look beyond our boundaries

Where wizards plot with silver elves

There’s fodder for the factories,

Silken ambrosia charms – of course – for ourselves!

Hearing Glory’s Music …

All that sinfully-wasted time –

Was it really so very long ago? –

All those fumbling words; so many

Maybe each of them would have lost interest,

Walked away, beyond my yearning reach.

And, all the while me, believing

I was dancing smoothly, faultlessly

In pure-diamond skies, hearing

Glory’s music in the slow-spiralling

Falls of angel feathers.

Could it be

I was, simply,

Always failing, slipping

Back to the minefield square

Where you have to throw a six,

Miss a go or

Pay a fine?

A Better Perfection?

What was I thinking?

If I was thinking at all,

Lacking commitment, no precious passion-metal

In this fifty-winters relationship today, nor, indeed,

For some months gone: only mere disdainful disinterest,

Denial: surely the most cowardly forms of betrayal.

No fire in the blood, no iron in the rod

Where love and faith once fitted, fuelled and fulfilled.

Another week’s dull grey rains gone

Under the honest, Bedlam song bridges;

Why was I waiting, pretending indifference?

And for what?

For the gallows shadow birds to find

Paradise-bell voices, describe a better perfection?

For the right cards, for a signal in smoke or stars?

What was I thinking?

Paradise Returned

Early world-day January sun gently

Tears away low scraps of frosty fog ribbons

Washes its delightful warmth and

Fresh-as-Eden light against the

Eastern sides of garden silver birches,

Makes jewels of drips at the purple twig tips;

Feeling is tranquil, though there is work to be done.

A patient, forgiving god is near.