The Commute

Someday soon, not so long,
Just after a whitening Sun
Has called time Noon,
Contracted, blanched,
All of this, remember
Will be finally far, far gone.
Thoughts and inward feelings
Will yet dissemble and
Be divorced
From the organic source
Like feet once on these bleachers
Now pound heavenly boards;
An event horizon in blue and
A new obilivion,
So why not be a little kinder now
To just, someday,
Someone.

I am, like you,
Flesh and Bones,
My life the size of a grain of sand
Yet my heart could traverse
A universe
To the syncopation of Love.
Isn’t this humanity’s
Latest and greatest
Conundrum?
Karma, make me a dog
If I might bring happiness
As endlessly you turn,
So why not be a little kinder now,
To just, someday,
Someone,
Even if that one someone
Some other day,
As you peruse the newness,
Adjust your hair, brushed,
Coffee brewed,
Commuting to work,
Is you, my love.

After All

Under margrave groves
Of peach blossom trees
There flows the falls
Of a winding creek,

Their blossoms’ aromas
Are mild and are meek,
But those torrents below
Are baleful and bleak.

My iris-blown beard
Diurnal and straw,
But under my chin
Eternal tears pool.

Snowfall cloaking
After all,
But when the snow melts
(If not long before),

Those bodies revealed,
Their mortal hands hold
The one different future,
Distant and cold.

Ode To My Father

When I opened my mouth
It was you, yes, who spoke;
When I then fell asleep
It was you, yes, who woke.
You colluded with love
And waters then broke.

By the skin of my teeth,
No skin on my nose,
You scooped all the futures
And curled up my toes;
No bedtime stories
And nowhere to go.

We drove down to Dorset
With one empty seat,
I rushed to the school gates
With no one to greet;
You opened a door
And the door was my Fate.

Daily they’re grieving
In pubs and the streets
For those overboard
In the bayou and creeks;
My numbers are letters
And the letters are Greek.

The Wheel

This is the music,
This is the dance,
This is the child
And this is the trance.

Hear all their whistles,
A belt with blue bells,
The buyers are selling
The source of our spells.

I tried to swim
For the dim furthest shore,
But Spring tides returned me
To churning Death’s door.

Chinese lanterns,
Mountain-side dell,
Where it all went
I could no longer tell.

Canescence

Dog chasing fox,
Caught in a headlock
Between igneous rock
And a dry river pass

Saturnine feelings
Fall to your palm:
Snowflakes mounting,
Mandrakes routing,
Meteor showers
Hour by hour
In a green looking-glass.

Dog-chasing foxes,
Sparkling quadrantids;
Fireworks cancelled,
And walks in the park.
Perihelion frost,
Your love is embossed
On my incandscently
Hoary heart.

I was dead to the world
Or rather
The world was dead to me.
Everything else was a case
Of sheer serendipity.

Passerine

To a fetlock’s height on unicorns
One Sunday morning you were born,
Weaned by a mother who hung her best dress
Beneath a seasoned turkey breast.
Snowdrift, westward, soon apart,
No sewing kit stitches a cold broken heart.

A blue tit warbling I once heard
On the crooked, downhill turf;
Later, I could not account to myself
For blood on my fingers,
Five or six feathers in my heart
And other forms of Cubist art;
Blue eye of my needle
Where the downy snow starts,
Returning home,
Her song in my chest,
To an empty bath.