Doesn’t Every Journey ..?

Here

In these few, brief –

Too-brief

Hours of change,

While the wholesome moon

And the law gods

Look away,

Identity can be fluid.

Maybe then

Perceptions being cleansed

(Or altered at any rate)

We see the doors

We were never looking for …

And nobody is harmed!

After all

Doesn’t every journey

lead to the traveller?

Challenge and Change

Rigid-backed, a pair of

Witch-eyed ravens view

Both the past and future

From the lizard-toed tops

Of a spring-resurrected elm.

But only I am aware of

the friends-of-ghost shapes

That fidget, hover and shift

In the churchyard mists.

There is challenge

And change

To come:

There will be a

No-more time

Soon enough

And a nowhere place.

But there is still time to

Swing on the fairyland moon

And paddle in malachite tides

If we are but bold enough.

What say you …

?

The Roles

Doubtless Destiny’s ether-gears are turning,

Blocks sliding, rearranging themselves into new shapes,

Aligning in different planes; invisible wheels

Inexorably rolling, skies stretching and burning.

Cradles have swung, shrunk, disappeared:

For I’m comfortable sitting in seats now

That I once could never have reached …

Around tables where I was the very active opposite of welcomed;

Feeling awkward, contrary-wise, where I was once at home

Yet relaxed in territories where I regularly trespassed and poached.

I have half-glimpsed many different faces

(Glimpsing me back I would have to guess)

In midnight-smoothed waters, and I force a smile

As I begin to realise I may yet be willingly playing –

And sooner than I know it –

The roles I once set my heart and face against.

The Value

Will there be more change

After the last change?

Will it be worth the having?

Will it show the real value

Of what we had?

Of what we gave away,

What, perhaps we lost?

Who will wear the target shirt

Now my time has been served?

Will they wear it

With strength, abandon

And casual pride

The way I wished I had

When I had the chance?

Portrait of the Poet

As night’s new choreographed clouds

Roll in and over me

I’m sitting, again,

Whole but alone again

In borrowed skin

Beneath a tree that struggles

To fit beneath the sky.

Between a warm metal heron and

A broken kitchen chair leg

I’m stabbing craziness onto

Poorly seen, second use paper

By stuttering light of gutter candles

With stubborn fingers and a

Well-chewed crayon stub.

Not everything has changed.

Not everything needs to.

25/7/2013

The Doctor.

I’ve slept since then –

More than once if truth be told – and

The picture’s changed,

The world moved on

In generation strides.

So much so that

This is a different story.

But yet …

But yet I cannot get over

What happened to the doctor – and

What happened to me

In all of the giddy-roundabout,

Switchback, switchblade years

He caringly tended  my family.

I know those adventure and apple days,

Cock-crow dawns and time-dam days

Are gone, gone, gone like small-candle smoke

In big-night, blue winds, but still,

Sometimes, it truly seems as if

He is still here,

Then is still now.

18/5/2013