Ramblings on a Sentiment

She said,
'wouldn't it be nice
to wake with each morning
to the laughter of children?'

And I said,
'well, after a while
you get used to it,'
not meaning, of course,
that the laughter of children
is an odious thing.

It's nice to give wing
to the merry of kinder,
and bask in the splendour
of freest laughter.

Elsewhere laughter is in
short supply:
murder, trachoma, slavery,
coercion - human dignity
put in suspension.

There you'll find that 
nothing grows
and the only laughter
is windblown, the 
murderous murder,
a cacophony, of crows.
Where the vultures pick the land,
and the ruler's the gallows.

So yes... my reply to you.
Here goes:
it's nice to see children
blooming, flowering, arising
with the rose.
The bud outweighs the thorns:
people aren't born prickly
or sickly: we just make them so

by forgetting that the thorns
are just as much a part
of the flower, and that
each deserves to peel open into
its fullest, reddest power.

Riposte to a Poem (The Night Worker)

I am a creature of twilight

and I work by night.

The night worker.

I wake with the winking 

of the daylight

as the husk of day shivers

down to its last coils 
of luminescence.

We live in the brief

burst of light, the slot

between the nine-to-five's 

finishing and where I

arise. Call it four o'clock,

where the light is softly 
dimming down

to match the pastel colour

of your rose cheek.

I work beneath neon lamp,

neon light rippling 

my hi-vis-yellow back,
in the stock yard, from my cab.

I take my tea whilst most

are drifting down to

their delta deep:

I don't sleep,

I eat: I'm eating

dreams.

I work through morning's rising,

greet that old friend

whom is always surprised

at my gazing to His

easterly birthing,

His slow emerging

from the pocket of night,

from the womb of space.

I punch out at six

and shoulder my bag,

leaving for home. 
From hereon it's a race
to peace, to you - to 
sleep. I get in at

seven and

ascend to heaven

up the stairs

to you sleeping, me unaware

that I've disturbed you from your dreams.

But now you bequeath on me

the colours of your sun

that has risen with you 
from your winks

into the room. You smile from the pillow

where your dreamy head makes its recess,

calling me to bless the patch

beside you

where you lay to rest.

I'm stripped down to my chest

and make waves into the folds

into that cotton sea where froth

the foams of distant oceans.

You cradled on my arm,

me enveloped in your caress,

we huddle to the hush

of the water's lullaby shush; sink,

to bottom out in inky black,

before the evening calls me back.

Twenty Seconds

Twenty seconds of bravery
can change your life -
it can be the difference between
isolation and a wife.

It can be the thread that weaves
your life into a oneness,
air into a tapestry.

Twenty seconds of courage
could make or break
a dynasty.

Twenty seconds of bravery
could sow the seeds
of destiny.

And twenty seconds of bravery
can never be undone -
if all this stems from one moment,
just think of what more good can come.

Red, White and Blue

I am a white man.
Cut me and I bleed red.
Bump me and I bruise
blue.

But why do I feel more green?
Is it the green seam of ganja
running down
my cool temperament?

And why yellow?
Is it because I
easily mellow
and say what I mean?

And why red?
I do not dread
my bleeding blood;
it feeds the Earth:
my ochre bed.

And yes,
it could be said
that

I am easily white,
definitely under-read,
and I'll forever be
blue.

But how about you?

A Prayer

Plunged into the dark of God
it summons from the night a flare,
and fires back into your eye
the outline of your heart, this prayer.

The outline of your heart, this prayer
shall spark a light inside your eye,
illumine up the night, and summon in a flare
the answer, plunged back from the dark of God.

Untitled Poem to My Love

Outside it's raining
so maybe
why I'm writing this
does not need explaining.

I once heard a punk poet say
that he wrote his poetry
around the kernels
of only a few lines....

If I could see your eyes
with each and every day
in different light, tone, temper,
I would write you quatrains.

I would write you quatrains,
and turn my life into poetry
and my flesh into sonic vibrations;
I would sew you into the air,

and publish them in your ear,
softly, on the end of my spear.
Now, wouldn't that be dear?
Fuck the rest: they can think it queer

for all I care.
For the tongue is a spear,
and the heart is a torch;
and good love debauched is the only thing I fear.

Queen

God save
the haemophiliac
plutocrat.

She's a queen -
not 'our' queen.
Just a queen.

But what does that mean?

For soldiers wouldn't
storm out
from their hive -
what does she do
to keep it alive?

The droners might sing
their patriotic song,
but for whom?
And for how long?

What is this surplus
of royal jelly
never to surcease
from national telly?

The queen's sting
outweighs her wings.
Are all these wrongs
god-given things?

The workers wouldn't lay
down their lives -
not for money.
So where is the nectar?

And where
is the honey?

Kingdoms of Light

For several months,
a dry channel coursed
its dry mouth
through a sweep of
unknown south-west sussex,
cracked and crusted crests
curving under bridges,
through sluices,
no water to whet the thirst
of the cinder-dry reeds.

But then all of a sudden
a spring welled up
from the ground:
fonted up, as if
into the hands of God,
pure water filled the channel,
steadily bursting
to an eary-low
conch shell rush.

I realise now
that I have been marking
my own life alongside it.
I have been waiting
for wetness, movement,
to ride it.

And I have marked
my life
by the epicycles
of the planets,
and the slow nocturnal
cycling of the stars
as they careen,
as they move closer
and farther away;
as the Earth
adjusts its tilt.

Polaris moves steadily off course,
the constellations crack
like a ripe pomegranate
or the fruit of love.

Sometimes the beauty
is just too much
and I wish for it
to take me.

But no:
there is far too much,
far too much here
for our palms to see
and I fear the worst -
hope we all see
the writing on the wall
before the finger of Babylon
points into the dark inside us
and our Kingdoms of Light fall.

The World Is

The world is
children behind bars:
their play areas like
Alcatraz: memories of
black figures
walking past them
in the slitted sunshine.

The world is the sun
blistering with its love,
unable to contain itself,
its being, its joy, its
will to power: its joyeux de
vivre, insolation.

The world is trees breaking
into wind, their music the
music of leaves. And the world is
a series of invisible gestures,
presents, wishes, misspent moments,
kindred hours, harsh words,
loving words, loving scorn:
my heart trailing
invisibly
like a wet slug
up to your door.

When I am Sixty

When I am sixty will my wife ride a bike

to the shops and back in summertime?

And in her basket will she carry a clock,

will she style her hair short and straight,

short and straight and ivory grey?

And of a Sunday will she read a book?

And if I arrange a dinner for eight

will she get there on time, or will she be late?

And will she keep her temperament fine

and love with ease in the summer time?

And will she be gentle and will she be mild,

carrying her grace as if a child?

When I am sixty will I have grown short?

And will I still make a witty retort?

And will I dare to eat a peach, and see the mermaids

singing each to each? And will I part my hair?

And will I snarl with a vicious snare? Or will Prufrock

be a milder fellow - I have known love,

bathed in meadows. Trod

in the black maze of shadows.

I have kissed lips - sour and full.

I have lived and danced, and I have found

that life's a thing to be worn - a gown.

And I have seen the mermaids, singing

each to each - till my darling's voice wakes me....

When I'm sixty, in love will I drown?

Ballad

It's a story of eight syllables

per line, or thereabouts

but throwing the form

is fine: quatrains don't have to

internally rhyme.

It's a story that starts like this:

glances, words, lips; the

joining of sensitive fingertips.

And by the end of it, all

is not fine.

But do you know why?

Well, here's the story.

I can no longer cry

over its telling

(but here comes the black gold:

here comes the
upwelling).

How can the human heart drown a person so? 

And in joyous joy still bring darkest sorrow?

And how can pleasures give one sleep

and yet spurn one in that deep to weep?

I loved her for many a year and

swore never to desecrate her form:

her body was a vessel, yes,

but we left our bodies behind:

we found the God in each other.

We said, is that us in the mirror?

Must be, she said. Can't not be, can it?

But looking upon my body

is like looking at myself in a photograph.

It does not seem real, because

my body has evaporated, escaped me,

and all that is left is light, and the

luminous manifestation of love.

And in these luminous truths she gave me eternal life.

And when she died, I eternally died.

And even though I know so much, I

can never survive without her at my side.

Can never love again. Because her love

is enough to sustain me in all lives: this

life, the future life, and all the lives I might wish

or not wish for. Her love opened up a door.
I stepped out from a small room to a verdant infinity.
She showed me the way, showed the body's decay,
but we were buried in ecstasy, two angels in flame.

So tell me how: how can the human heart 

drown a person so? And in joyous joy still bring 

darkest sorrow? Because the heart is an ocean:

I took a dip in hers, was submersed in the riptide,
drowned joyfully, secreted into that pulsing ribbon of muscle,

and I shall never find my way back home.

The Rose Hourglass

It started with a sultry smile,

her eyes set in jade looking deeply

into the clock of my love,

lust came unfrayed, and sleepy

was my mind, calm my disposition:

our two bodies synchronised,

I started the ignition, drove her

home, sat her atop a supernatural throne.

She unclammed herself, I fingered

the throng; unclapsed the fabric

to angel song. Some call the body wrong,

some say that angels weep, and sick

is the vessel: seven-fold pale-green sin, carnal crime:

but as midnight came she chimed twelve times

and her keeper let me in.

Angels

Around you,

a kernel, a nut,

coalesces a universe.

Happiness draws in the

world, and

spins it up

into silken yarn.

Around you,

all is drawn in,

because your gravity

is too strong.

But don't blow up

or in singularity go:

I want to join you.

Show me. Know me.

So where to?

Your soul has outshelled you.

Your eyes now glow.

House of Joy

[Enter script here...]

> come populate

> the House of Joy/

> Girl or boy

Query: vacancies?

Boolean: Yes, never the no

> Come populate the House

> We have no doors here, just windows...

> Run server://computer/House/God/Human-Eternal-Life/

Error msg: wherefore evil?

> The only evil

is belief in its existence,

and the brief perversion

of purity

> Love is for ever here

> Unconditional

> New msg: House goes global
in 5... 4... 3... 2....

Remember....

If I die before I'm due

and this is my final hour,

then let me say this to you,

and let your heart ring with a power:

if I die before I'm due,

just remember this:

I'll take with me the years,

the love, the shade,

the kiss,

the willow, the trust,

the tender fleshy aching thrust

of your heart,

and all the plays

of your part.

If I die before I'm due,

let me leave you this:

take your positive energy

and run with it. Take

all your passions

and strike up art.

Take your life to pastures light

and kill with life the dark.

And of all our creations

the greatest was this:

not a homestead, not a dynasty,

nor even a kiss;

the greatest thing we made

was a little, loving boy.

We took our flesh, 
my love, 
my light, and 
transformed it 

into joy 
and 
life.