morning / cloud pass

 

 

 

                                                      morning
                                                      cloud pass

                                   how beautiful: sun
                      full through the window as I sit
                      tinting the white radiator blue I suppose
                      from the blanket around my shoulders
                      and there, to the right, a trinket of light
                      reflected from the spangles in the material
                      around the base of the shrine by my knee I suppose
                      jumping with each slow beat of my heart …

                                                      … back to
                                                      the breath

 

 

 

awareness wormhole: the pocket
reflection wormhole: ‘the Buddha statues …’

 

tired – diptych

 

 

 

                                                              tired

                     from sleep
                                   dream about to fight someone
                                                   poke my fingers in his eyes
                                   couldn’t control a class
                     even when angry
                                                   tired
                                   from looking for meaning
                                                              when writing
     drove 150 miles
                                                   nothing magical
                     no gorges of grey cloud
                                   to brace my fresh and steely view
                     sunny day
                                   people stupid
                     all acting lost to their wondrous nature
                                                   I, tired
                     and lost to my wondrous nature through judgement
                                                   stupid stupid stupid

 

                                                      ~ ^o^ ~

 

                                                              the Batman
                                                   is on a mission and a vow
                     absorbed and meticulous
                                   in every activity
                                                   the vow to strike fear
                     the mission to make justice
                                   even if he has to do it himself
     all without knowing his wondrous nature
                                                   at all
                     which cause his shadows and nemeses
                                                              to arise
                                   manifest and garish
                                                   askance and twilight-mirrored across town
                     the Joker – his freedom and adjustment
                                   denied and let wild
                                                   the Riddler – his doubt and guilt
                                   refused and shot with worm
     the Penguin – his child and hurt
                                                   abused and reviled by hope
                     the Catwoman – his love and beauty
                                                                      un-held and awkward to speak

                                   he climbs the outside of buildings
                                                              stupid stupid stupid

 

 

 

part of >>> Batman
travelling wormhole: travelling is fresh
mirror wormhole: ‘small town busy …’

 

sunny morning

 

 

 

                      after a night
                                   of no electricity where
                                   the carpets seemed like floorboards
                                              and we snuggled together in bed
                                                              un-asleep

                                              sunny morning

                      high high in the sky
            a wide band of cirrus cloud
                      allows the whole world
                                   to move its rooftops beneath it

                                              more direct
                      a jet trail cuts into it – no
                                              above it –
            drifting at fifty miles an hour
                                   I look back into my book
                      then glance back out at the poem

                      the cloud
            has magnified as it settles behind
                                   the rooftops chimneys treetops
                      the jet trail nowhere to be seen
                                              I’m sure I’d noticed it

 

 

 

chimney wormhole: wide-open / concentration
reading wormhole: the spectre

 

the end

 

 

 

                      maybe it was the tinted glasses
                      walking uproad to town

                                the
                                wide
                                low
                                grey
                                cloud
                                hung

                      then there was space
                      between the buildings

                      a woman walked handsome out
                      of the House of offices uphill
                                for lunch

                      the bus bsssh’d and waved
                      some suits across the road
                                downhill

                      then there was silence
                      and we all waited for

                                the end

                      under the green steeple

 

 

 

honest

 

 

 

                                          I sit
                                     and for a few
                                          precious seconds
                                     maybe even
                                          partial seconds
                                     if I’m honest

                                          I’ll breathe
                                          like a tulip

                                     without my notice
                                          or intention
                                     and ‘like a flash of lightning
                                          in the dark of night’
                                     the whole garden
                                          will shift with the breeze
                                     and theme the colour of the moment

                                          too quick
                                     to shelter from the
                                          timeless creeping penumbra
                                     a tangled grubby weave
                                          of voice and echo wide as the sky

                                          ah, but the air the air

 

 

 

part of … oh
part of >>> breeze

 

perched

 

 

 

                                          perched

                                                      on the brow of Ashdown Forest
                                under gathering grey canyons
                                                      and squally firs

                                          the green Wellington boots
                                clump to the ground
                                taking the rucked-down woollen socks
                                          with them

                                                      bare pink feet

                in the car park at King’s Standing

                                          and after an hour working and walking through
                                                      the suffocation to be
                                breathed at work
                                          I think I’m good with that

                                          awhile

 

 

 

walking wormhole: when anythinging
pink wormhole: rear attic / bedroom

 

evening

 

 

 

                                          evening

                      two houses
                      slightly staggered
                      facing east

                      bright clear high-grey sky
                      in no.7’s bedroom windows
                                – light on

                      deep grey clouds
                      in no.9’s bedroom windows
                                – no echo

                      the sky above them
                      already grey and scuddy and
                      the trees behind perfectly still

 

 

 

train

 

 

 

                                          train

                                   righ’
                      wherearewe
                                   oh
                      I’ve got the A-Z upside
                                   down
                                   OK
                      where’s me lucky stars?
                                   as
                      the hanging clouds
                                   speed
                      behind the passing trees

 

 

 

’8:30 kitchen …’

 

 

 

                                                      8:30 kitchen
                                window bare shrub climbing road
                                       light green cloud-belly

 

 

 

the Eiffel Tower

 

 

 

                                                      back at the hotel
                                                      room nine floors up
                                                      grey clouds over
                                                      grey sky over
                                                      rooftop railings

                                                      twin plumes of steam
                                                      from a cup of tea
                                                      waiting by the bed
                                                      for me to sit and write
                                                      under a blown-up
                                                      pixelated picture of
                                                      the Eiffel Tower
                                                      at night

 

 

 

part of … Paris