On a burning hot day
in the shade of an oak
a chestnut mare laying down,
chewing on buttercups, clover.
Young filly,
Arabian head,
with a star on her brow.
Essence of unicorn.
Blue sky, white clouds.
red horse,
vibrant green grass
nourished by summer showers.
Her skin quivers,
shaking off flies,
but it’s me who disturbs her
not they.
She raises her head,
poised to stand and depart.
I hold my breath and her gaze.
This magical moment can’t last.
I was a painter.
I still am I suppose.
It’s the way I look at the world.
Light, form, colour and line
and all the spaces between.
But how do you paint
The scent of a rose?
Or the touch of your hand on my skin?
They both have some essence of pink, dusk, white?
For this I would rather have words
and the freedom to speak my own heart.
I saw you turn off the engine
but the car is gathering speed.
You took your hands off the wheel
and calmly rolled out the door.
I press my foot to the floor,
trying to steer from the back seat.
The tarmac is black.
Raindrops are filling the screen.
The baby is crying.
We begin to hurtle downhill
in a wandering, dangerous, freewheel, scream.
Through tunnels,
round bends,
I lean,
gritting my teeth and praying.
The inevitable crash never comes,
regardless of having no brakes.
That’s the power I still have
in this darkly recurring dream.
I slept nine hours last night, she says,
I dreamed of you.
I asked if that was why she slept so long.
Only joking.
She laughs and say for sure it was.
Warm weather here.
Cold there.
Spring, how lovely.
Flowers and butterflies.
Yes.
I smile.
She always thinks of something pretty.
The taxi driver had a Brooklyn accent.
Like all the films, I think,
and remember Sophie’s Choice
Timbered houses, gables.
Tragic story.
Quick slices of happiness.
Madness.
Thinking of that I miss her next two sentences.
I come back to her.
Heavy luggage.
Last night was full of sirens and voices.
The Broadway shows cost a lot.
Traffic.
We’re leaving here soon, she says,
and I can’t wait to see you.
Everything is going to be so good.
Every word she says, is interspersed,
with saying how she loves me
and how she’s longing to be near me.
Any Body Can Do Easy Funny Games
Harder Is Joining Kaleidoscopic Loving Meanings
No Obvious Practical Questions Resolve Serious Troubles
Under Viciously Willed Xenophobics Yielding Zeal
Far heavier than I expected
and the size of an old sweet jar,
opaque plastic, black lidded.
Thank heaven it wasn’t transparent.
I could not have gone on like that.
I carried my father’s ashes
through the streets,
past the church and the chapel,
past the pizza parlour and meaty kebab shops,
under summer trees and fuming traffic,
everything poignantly normal.
We didn’t walk often together.
My father preferred his home.
I was sweating from heat and emotion.
Such a hot afternoon it was.
They come and go
They go in and out
They grimace when I copy their sounds
Their wings are unformed or vanished
That is really a sadness
They must keep me caged from envy
Their purpose is unclear
They press their strange faces up to the bars
When the door stood opened
I was paralysed
I know I shouldn’t be here
Behold the tight closed fist
Behold the puckered lips
Behold the eyes screwed shut
Behold the wrinkled frown
Behold the hungry mouth
Behold the new pink gums
Behold the clean and tender skin
Behold how when the eyes are wide
they have a mystic gaze
of quintessential innocence
nothing else is there
Behold the dawn or thought
Behold his simple joy
in the pleasure of his limbs
and how his lungs expand with air
gentle in the breathing
Behold his gaze,
drawn to light and movement
Behold the flexing fingers
Behold his hidden soul
a lotus deep enclosed
Behold a new beginning
Behold the newborn child
Behold the dawn of thought
This house is empty
I’m alone
This room holds all I have from home.
That portrait hung upon the wall,
Above the fire that gives no warmth,
Has been there half a century now
It’s darkened varnish gathers dust
I don’t know how my time has passed
I sat alone, content to wait
I thought he would return at last
I trusted fate
He had no fear
War makes young men disappear
Penned in by my own pen
No current thought will flow
No note I strike will rhyme
and so,
I send to you a ring
A ring that does not chime
A band that plays no tune
And hope it finds you well
Though I no water draw
To moisten my dumb lips
I’ll think of something soon
Since I have lost my words
A sketch I’ll make of you
To gladden my own eye
Telling you the truth
Please know that I still lie
Here beneath a tree
Penned in by my own pen
The Dreaming Path 