London

both a belated – and posthumous – mothers’ day

 

 

 

                yesterday there were
                                grey layers of cloud
                and I thought of my
                                Nan and Mum

                today I travelled to London
                                it is sunny with a beige mist hung low over the river

 

 

 

beige wormhole: rear attic / bedroom
Thames wormhole: Eglinton Hill
mist wormhole: duck calls
Nan wormhole: dream / 140603
Mum wormhole: currency of generations

 

as

 

 

 

                                              as

                                                              the shadow
                                              windowed and blinded
                                across the conservatory
                crockery in the breeze being cleared from
                                someone’s garden table and
                the plastic clack of a wheelie bin – tomorrow I think

                I notice underneath the ironing board leant against the wall
                                                              a lime cover under a pink
                                              flowered cover under a
                                yellow-duned cover and

                                where the lilac silk
                                              emulsion has caught the reflection
                                                              of the deep blue carpet
                                              it looked
                                metallic

 

 

 

shadow wormhole: Peeks at Castleton
conservatory wormhole: thawing
lime wormhole: your gold teeth
lilac wormhole: William Carlos Williams
pink wormhole: two fat ladies / chk klak klip // all the while

 

more importantly

 

 

 

                                for minute after minute
                                an alarm rilling through
                                the open windows
                                of a hot afternoon
                                and all the while
                                the cracking picking
                                twicking of a squirrel
                                working out on a branch
                                somewhere          but then

                                                                                    more importantly

                                              a pigeon –
                                `hadn’t noticed –
                                                              on a bare branch looking
                                              another way

                not calling

 

 

 

openness wormhole: open / window
squirrel wormhole: almost-Escher
pigeons wormhole: first dog / in the park
attention wormhole: ‘no …’

 

heavy shower …

 

 

 

                                                      heavy shower …

                                                      the terracotta
                                                      chimney pot

                                                      on the lichen
                                                      stack before

                                                      the charcoal
                                                      cloud in the

                                                      sun break and
                                                      the wave of

                                                      birdsong in the
                                                      gardens’ trees

                                                      was golden

 

 

 

gold wormhole: grammar
chimney wormhole: sunny morning

 

relief

 

 

 

                         relief

                    on a tired Saturday
                         late afternoon
                    sun shadowing broad
                         over the road
                    FM Juice plays 70s disco depressing
                         but
                    the violin of Classic FM is
                         strangely
                         alternative

 

 

 

afternoon wormhole: Saturday / afternoon
Brighton wormhole: … thank you
waiting wormhole: sitting
shadow wormhole: meditation

 

the sea plant

 

 

 

                                                the sea plant
                flourishes in water each move and turn
                                held         almost anticipated
                                                m a n i f  e  s  t   e    d
                                                by the curling fronds
                                leaning and doubting
                                                              like a community

                                                it might want
                all the long while to sit on the surface and
                                flower to the sun
                                                to bathe at last in the light
                                                little realising the completeness of each reach
                                like a beautiful dancer
                                                finishing each move with her
                                                                            fingertips

 

 

 

dancing wormhole: dream 100213
sea wormhole: the bench / on the fourth sister from / Birling Gap before the / wind-brushed scrub and gorse / and the grey-blue sky / smoothed through the / fishtank-blue horizon to / grey-green sea

 

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 …’

 

Eglinton Hill

 

 

 

                                     Eglinton Hill

                           the end of Autumn sunlow above the hill
                                     shining down the wet tarmac

                           cars drive slowly up sun visors down
                                     upper mouth open squinting
                                                   cheekbones

                           the oaks have lost their leaves now
                                     apart from the furry ivy
                                     that clothes them
                           you can see more of the river
                                     now below the branches

                           and while cars pull in and out of Dallin Road
                                     when it is quiet
                           a young child shrieks a chasing game
                                     in and out of the front garden
                                     with her brother

 

 

 

a room in the House on Eglinton Hill
autumn wormhole: mlewis diptych
oak wormhole: mlewis diptych
Thames wormhole: Bonus Books

 

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 …’

 

‘set the controls / for the heart of the sun’

 

 

 

                                          merely
                           spinning around 25 000 miles gives me all
                                          the nights and days
                                                   of my every breath

                                                   ‘set the controls
                           for the heart of the sun’

                                          only
                50 000 000 miles closer
                           I would be lost in a radiation
                                          of day to day stumbling and lurching

                                          at
                                          92 000 000 miles
                           I would take my place
                                          in the great auditorium
                           watch thousand-mile arcs
                hear planet-deep burps
                                          and smell the timpani farts deep within my lungs
                                                   as I melt with the audience
                                                              of a lifetime’s thousand selves

                                          until
                           at the centre
                           there will be the silence
                                          of wide-open potential
                                                   sufficient to light a world