January 25, 2011

If I could shatter this stubborn heart,
and amongst the rubble find one part
which could be given-up most easily,
and lived without for all eternity,
my hammer would not hesitate.

But I know amid the crumbled mess
would be found no single ounce worth less,
no gram I’d more lose than any other,
and so intact it remains, my lover,
to wholly be given again.


The Reveal

January 23, 2011

Come and visit, if you can,
the place where I stand,
with an unplanned heart
and an outstretched hand.

Take some shelter from the sky
that soaks through your cries,
and lie on the bed
in these unmade eyes.

Leave now those attic affairs;
descend the dark stair,
for nowhere does it lead
but to a boxed-up prayer.

Now show to me a bruise –
any one you choose –
from the disputed lands
of your high-heeled shoes

and like magic we’ll disappear,
vanish from here,
across fear’s divide,
on a ride along the years.

21st Century Compliment

January 23, 2011

In the forties you’d be spiffo,
in the fifties I’d call you swell.
The sixties? You’d be groovy, of course,
but the seventies wouldn’t suit you so well.
The eighties? You’d have to be excellent;
The nineties? Let’s leave them be,
and fast-forward to the here-and-now
where you seem alright to me.

King Slumber

January 23, 2011

Sleep is the absent monarch
engaged in some distant war,
his kingdom coming unstuck,
torn apart by the onslaught
of a new and restless age
when tribal thoughts do battle
and insurgent memories rage,
making show of their mettle
in visions of a home defiled
and of villages left to burn:
A land only to be reconciled
when he, in victory, returns.


January 18, 2011

It would be wrong to declare, “this is where you belong”
but it suits you, I think, and that’s enough for a song.
The way you wear the duvet, a little leg on show;
and your hair as a feather, to set-off your pillow.


January 13, 2011

Some are like satellites,
forever orbiting your life;
some, like comets, appear
once every other year or so;
some are just like the tide,
and can always be relied on;
while some, like the seasons
will come and go for no reason.
But we hope, at the end
They will gather, these friends,
And remember us,
When to dust we must return.


January 13, 2011

Watching lilies from the riverside:
A fruitless occupation, one could say,
but a beautiful way to waste some time
on a Saturday.

Watching raindrops down the window glass,
too fast to count as they scurry away,
accelerates the time it takes to pass
another Sunday.

Foraging for life in the furrows,
as subterranean mice must at night,
is no distinguished way, god knows,
To pass through a life.

Watching lilies from the riverside:
A fruitless occupation it may be,
but lilies, and rivers, with you close by,
that’s all I’ll ever need.