Postcard from the Moon

I once saw a piece of moon in a box.

The pocked face hardly rocked –

it leant perchance to mock

the humans, brave as gods,

in filthy diesel machines,

filthy carbon-spitting machines,

as soft as hard dreams,

pirouetting down with ease.

And this chunk of rock,

squat, benign in box,

was like a postcard from heaven,

‘wish you were here’ at the bottom –

but no name.

A Leaf Said

If you really have all the time

in the world,

then why do you check your watch?

Only trees have that,

and they don’t care.

But, then again,

they don’t do any harm, do they?

If you were born green behind the ear

and you’ve more bark than bite

than a clockface make you might.

Unheard Poem

Insensitivity

is the biggest evil in the world.

Forget about arms trading,

globalisation, homogenisation,

conflict escalation,

political hesitation,

moral degeneration,

climatic destabilisation

and growing unease.

What about your fellow human?

Are your eyes open?

Did you have to jack your ear wide

to receive the token

of a spoken kiss?

(Leaning like trees.)

And was it bliss?

Did you think about this?

Were your feelings amiss?

Are their shoes uncomfortable?

Are they wet, rain cloying

through holes born of walking

and bullet talking,

more balking than the voice

of a human.

When you see through their eyes,

do the colours run?

Is there a bruised sun,

blotched moon, ugliness in bloom?

Or is the ugliness in you,

projected all askew,

as you canter like a star

throwing another off course?

Equinox and Solstice

The procession of the world

is a wonderful thing –

the natural order

changing ever so slowly;

the days wax into each other

unnoticed, except for the stars,

the falling leaves,

the coming drifts of snow

and lull of birds.

But equinox and solstice are elsewhere,

for I am in a train carriage

peopled by drunk idiots

repeating the game, the trick,

and hoping for a different result,

and the dream of season seems

as alien to me

as trying to find signs

in the puddle of last night’s

exuberant excess.

You Can Have Your Love and Eat It

Dress yourself in your own creation.

The new day ushers in a new style.

Dress and have dressed the cessation

of the truth undergirding all the while.

The steel frame, flimsy made,

the cardboard sticks, scotch tape meld,

support you, heavy, burdened maid,

and, struggling, load goes upheld.

Frailty, poor frailty of youth,

exchange not, nor questions asked.

No thoughts to be laid out as rail –

pretend to fit all under mask.

Love incomplete – care

arm half-cocked;

confidence shall sure impair

the trade,

your cellar bare, half-stocked.

Collar bones are hollow stones

and backs of knees are naked trees

and napes of necks are old birds’ nests,

and love’s cradle was never rocked.

One Amongst Many

You look smart in your low heels

but I wonder what you believe:

do you believe you are

a crucial member of society?

A pillar that self must not erode?

Do you believe in impropriety?

Piety?

Do you see small fry

as a load?

Are molehills mountains

Are wellsprings fountains?

Are shadows little men,

little foreign travelling men,

that fill you up with shouting?

Are opinions really carat

when put on scales with shit?

Are your hands held open

because you expect the prize to fit?

Are you waiting, solemn soldier,

somewhere in the line

far behind the grating

quiet voice within your mind?

You Can Extrapolate

Women's feet

hold the promise of dream

but only when a plain foot

slippered in an open-toed sandal

appears

will you know the truth.

Painted toes

and high heels

and naked feet,

and all just

a dressing

for the mind.