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
breathing wormhole: but there …
reflection wormhole: ‘the Buddha statues …’

 

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

 

‘my Dot …’

 

 

 

                           my Dot
                     gets up at five thirty
                     six mornings a week
                     and watches the high-
                           vis strips
                     of the bin men off to work
                     as she drives the van
                           downhill to deliver
                           the mail to Brighton town

                     she has a Psychology degree
                     but it doesn’t matter because
                     she stands in the kitchen
                           on a day off in
                           her mother’s
                           baggy cords and
                           some brand new
                           long-johns and a
                           chimney pot hat
                           on her showered
                           hair dried all shaggy
                     and she is natty happy with her life

 

 

 

Brighton wormhole: losing the anxiety
Charlotte wormhole: dream / 150910

 

morning

 

 

 

                      morning

                                   is it just fanciful to think
                                   that it rained all the day you died
                                          and I freshly grieved
                                          the hundred times that
                                          I’d forgotten and then
                                          remembered again
                                   and it blew all the night you died
                                          and I recited my prayers
                                          and thought my thoughts
                                          trying hard to keep my mind
                                          on the emptiness you had become

                                                              but this morning the sky
                                                              is bright bright blue and
                                                              the fir trees are leaning
                                                              here and there not quite sure
                                                              what they are doing here
                                                              all brushed up now
                                                              clean and bristling

 

 

 

… in memory of: Bob 1995-2012
blue sky wormhole: Bob // 1995/2012

 

duck calls

 

 

 

                      in the early morning
                      the ground seemed frozen
                      but it was the shifting dew-mist

                      shh – duck calls

                      from behind the dark trees
                      along the bottom of the garden
                      where the fields and water were

 

 

 

a scene from >>> Ramsden Heath
mist wormhole: The Smoker You Drink The Player You Get (1973) – tribute

 

The Smoker You Drink The Player You Get (1973) – tribute

The Smoker You Drink The Player You Get (1973), Joe Walsh & Barnstorm

 

 

 

                      tribute

                      my brother ordered
                      the smoker you drink
                      the player you get by mail
                      all the way from america
                      to genesta road
                      when he was eleven
                      with his pocket money

and brought wooden glass walls and doors   raindrops in wheat stalks      fine chiselled filigree on the stained snuff box      misty plains and misty textures      a furl of mist stealing round the corner by the iron black lamp post into the lemon-blue morning      the anticipation of snow through the full-length frosted-glass door      reaching the top of the hill watching the blue veins through the streets like waves      birdsong twist in the trees somewhere behind the red-tiled roof ridge      wrapped-snare quarter fills      sparrow-call uphill in a pine tree amplified by the whole hill      relaxed rejoinders to the la-la-la la’s strolling over the woods back to the house

                      which didn’t just
                      walk up those steps
                      to the front door
                      by themselves
                      and all because
                      he’d caught a
                      silent glimpse of it
                      on the old grey
                      whistle test

                      I should have paid more attention to him

 

 

 

birds wormhole: coffee shop
lemon wormhole: portrait
mist wormhole: ”please me very kind with your practice …’

 

’8:30 kitchen …’

 

 

 

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

 

 

 

the receding / roads of Hejira

 

 

 

                                                              the receding
                                                              roads of Hejira

                                                      now I can’t dance
                                                      and I can’t talk

                                                      the new free ways
                                                      of expressing my self

                                                      at this all-night party
                                                      but I have escaped now

                                                      through the morning
                                                      past the piles of snow

                                                      on the road edge
                                                      the orange sun

                                                      behind the grey sky

 

 

 

orange wormhole: classic

 

in the sun

 

 

 

                           in the garden
                           in the morning
                           in the sun

                           on the horizon
                           a new line of hills
                           full of snow

 

 

 

horizon wormhole: by

 

‘red edged with / mauve …’

 

 

 

                      red edged with
                      mauve behind the
                      silhouetted rooftops

                      but a single star of light
                      got caught in a minaret
                      all morning