… the Plan

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Here’s the plan:

Light the fire,

Lie under gravity’s

Perfect blanket

On grass

Lit grey by

Half moon;

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Joy and the Quill

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Wearing so perfect well

The charged emotions

Of every beat and every lyric

Who joins her, shares in

The choruses?

When she spins those

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Distraction and Disguise

Rainbow flames its brief bridge

Of blazing colours across the April sky;

Sharp showers, darts of cold air.

From up here, atop one-time

Old Howe Ridge, long-time ago home,

Site of ancient farm and a school

That educated all and the one

It is impossible to see the distant,

Grey-cloud blanketed city in its role as

Industrialised, scarred prostitute.

Distance and spring rain are

Distraction and disguise.

We travelled between

Historic limes to get here:

An avenue where, much later,

Joyous wights will chance the

Wedding gambler’s dance.



Hold the Future Closer.

Before colours could bleed their

Confidence-trick confusions

Into the new day

The wandering hidden people danced;

Danced to celebrate reaching

Season-border clapper bridge.

Dressed in sliver and grey motley they

Wove loose-limbed,

Long-step patterns around

Rippling pyres of tall, blue pale flames.

The world around lay fierce-choke quiet,

Holding a night-long breath:

Yet I felt the music:

Echo-ghost voices of deep-jet whales,

Ice-heart sibilant percussives,

Vibrations of undiscovered stars,

Chorus winds of dragon-banner conflict.

They shunned me not,

Showed gentle respect and,

Though I know I will not meet them again,

I no longer neither doubt not fear

Their presence here,

For they belong as much as we –

And I hold the future closer, tighter now.


A Million Children


A million happy children
Live in that patterned, souvenir jar;
The one at the bottom of the garden
That held summer evening
Honey scented candles
And future talk fantasies.
A million, maybe more,
It’s really impossible to count.
They perpetually dance in
Their stained glass world
Of pure spectrum colours

Listen, oh so carefully, and you
Will hear them sing,
Sing in joyful tongues,
Under eternal sun,
Believing their fairymoon dreams –
Why not? –
They do not suspect that the
Wide base of the jar
(Carelessly left out in merciless early frost)
Has become detached,
Is missing, indeed.
They have such innocent trust,
Living in splendid abandon:
Why would we
Tell them any different?
What would be gained
By us or them?