Charlie

The kid from London’s back alleys
Tagging along with his brother
Selling flowers with panache and aplomb

Lost to the eyes of his mother
Locked by the deadly machines
Rebelling against the system

Defying the ledge
Spinning close to the edge
Wild wobbler on roller skates

Expelled from the town
He followed the dusty old roads
Winding away to the distance

Poverty’s child made us smile for a while
As the world came tumbling down

People laugh at the shuffling clown
But the magic is in the pathos

Prim Victorian (Mary-Anne)

prim, Victorian, grim-lipped
in black cotton and lace
such a face
made of stone and ice
but her dark, lustrous eyes
burn with such heat

intense,
wandering feet

rebellious daughter
of a Methodist minister
preaching an older tradition
burnt in witch-fire
for generations

they line up behind her,
the warrior peasants,
exploited,
delighting in word play,
aware of their ancient glories
and treasuring stories
passed down the line,
tongue to ear
ear to tongue
repeating

returned from the snows of Alaska
frost-bitten, exhausted,
helped there,
by like-minded peoples,
she returned to a British hearth
to sit in the corner
just as she sits now,
very still,
rarely speaking,
captured and framed,
staring at me through a lens

Mad Hatters Lune

what’s the fuss about?
we’re crazy!
you want to be sane?

i’m not changing hats
or my heart
so come on Alice

let’s make a party
come and dance
while the night is here

don’t wake the sleepers
don’t trust them
they might wreck our dreams

National Poetry Month starts tomorrow!

http://www.napowrimo.net

The first post of NaPoWriMo, with prompt, featured participant, and our first featured poet in translation will go live at 12:01 a.m. eastern standard time April 1; subsequent daily posts will also go live at 12:01 EST each day.

Participating poets can be seen here http://www.napowrimo.net/participants-sites/

My own is there and also here https://napowrimo2016atdreamingpath.wordpress.com

The Sea

watching the sea
as it rises and falls
always awaiting the seventh

the rock pools are flooded
deep water drums
as each wave hits them again

the green at the heart of the wave
as it curls in the sun
and comes crashing down

fading, dying, it washes the shore
white frothing bubbles of foam
leaving smooth darkened sand in its wake

the line of white shells and pebbles
defines and records the retreat
and, for a time, holds the imprint
of my feet as i walk away

love, like the ocean, is endless
life and death on the tide
makes the cycle complete
and the loving more sweet

Clearly he adores her

– he is the one at fault
remember that,
keep a note,
don’t be fooled by what follows,
– but remember he loves her
and wants her love in return
– be sure to get the full picture

he told her the truth
he needed time to think

she dragged words out of him
words he didn’t want to speak

not then, not there, maybe never

later, when the storm was over,
one romantic evening
when the stars were bright,
and music was playing sweetly,
he told her a story
one that reminded him so much of her

she analyzed it
explored his sub-conscious for clues
she only saw her own eyes looking back
she denied she was part of his vision
she twisted the tale out of all shape
leaving a big gaping hole
that only she could ever fill
– later she said she was sorry

he took her out dancing,
she probably never wanted to go,
she sat there is total silence
and when he asked what was wrong
she said she had bought the office files along

his pride, for a brief moment,
made him think he should stand up and leave
but he was fascinated by the file contents,
of course,
everything about her
and the life that they share
fascinates him
– it’s all part of their love anyway

he gave her a gift
she asked if he was trying to change her
why would he want to change her?
– it’s totally clear he adores her

if she was late would he wait for her?
yes he would, of course,
as long as she liked
– time doesn’t matter

when she returned, rather late,
she chose to remind him
(how could he ever forget it)
of her rules and his own folly
(if folly it truly was)

she had remembered the storm
and was still feeling angry
just sometimes
– just then

now he’s angry too
– angry he is sad
– sad he is angry
he can’t sleep
because
he has always
truly
loved her
– it’s so clear,
he
simply
adores
her

*************************************

for those with a short attention span
here is the abbreviated version

– he was the one at fault
– it’s all part of their love
– time doesn’t matter
– sad he is angry
– angry he is sad
– it’s totally clear he adores her
– the truth is she loves him too

Two Limericks

there was an old man in Darjeeling
he lost all his senses and feeling
but he read in a book
it makes the world look
really good when you watch from the ceiling

he spent the rest of his life upside down
with a smile on his face, not a frown,
he never felt faint
people called him a saint
but his blessing was being a clown

**************************

diddle-idle-diddle-idle-diddle-idle-dum
the Irish love to play on the bodhrán drum
when they had enough whiskey
it’s sure to get frisky
diddle-idle-diddle-idle-diddle-idle-dum

5.15am

The voice, a breath on a breeze,
stellar, shining, white feather floating,
scattered stardust, soft twinkle,
a warm whisper close to my ear

”Yes, the light was the beginning,
the beginning of the myth,
the myth that brought us all here,
the myth that we had to be.”

”Then the stars gathered round
humming and singing,
singing celestial sound.
The world started spinning,
spinning the loom of itself.”

”No one said, LET THERE BE LIGHT!
Light was, light is.
There is light and darkness,
it’s shadow.”

”But in the great-long-forever-timeless-nothingness
it was suddenly 5.15am!”

When I asked for the theatre prompt sheet
for the book of love and imagination,
(I already had the script),
she projected this onto a board,
along with a dim, faded photograph
of the Mad Hatter leaning against a screen,
nonchalant, in a space
beside a gap in a tattered curtain.
He had stood still there a long time
a very long time ago.

A crowd of children passed by,
wandering home from school,
pushing, shoving, chattering,
telling how they knocked all the apples down
from the garden wall,
but that wasn’t it at all.
They’d forgotten paradise.