Dead

His marbleised features are set at neutral;

a look that never was his.

So this is not him,

but was so recently.

Container and contents perhaps?

How does one distinguish?

Attitude

Intended to catch the 'does he take sugar' attitude to people with physical disability, the poem relies on the word 'owns' being recognized in the spirit I intended; I'm not that I've achieved it. 

Attitude.

Who owns the child

with the withered arm-wings,

who carries the mutation that weighs a ton;

who, when the air is full of flight, hops

and hops and hops.

See how the children littering the yard

launch like torn pages into careless flight.

Like gulls they hog the sunlight

while a sea worries far below.

This is the currency.

But who owns that child,

the child with the withered arm-wings.

The other day Louise and I promised each other our lives without speaking.

We made love and stayed in each other’s arms

for a long time without opening our eyes or talking,

                          but enjoying the lisping leaves and the guttering of the stream                            
between the yellow stones.

                Those sounds in our ears and the sun’s breath on our bodies           

held us, one heart.

For there is nothing to say that is not understood

when two feel themselves one because they are within each other’s arms.

Short Coversation

The moon is a hubcap

  fallen off the earth.

I am a pendulum

  treading time.

“I'm blind”

   says the moon.

 “I'm paralyzed”

    says I.

  "Let's go"

    says the moon.

  "Where"

    says I. 

  

  

A Balmy Day in July

On a balmy day in July,

I sat outside with a few tins,

watching wispy white clouds

alter shape, and the afternoon too

as, sooner than wished,

the sun moved westward.

And that was the day, missiles,

delivered by the US,

killed 56 civilians in Syria.

I suspect that none of those 56

considered that tax-payers,

in the country the sun was travelling to,

would pay for these products

and their delivery

from God’s round blue sky.

"Never smile at a crocodile and never give Messi that much space"

Simile, hyperbole, metaphor, idiom: Ray Hudson should be mandatory on all ‘creative writing’ courses.

Messi scored the winner against Real Madrid last Sunday and Ray’s celebration was epic.

"The menacing man arrives and sinks his flaming spear into the hearts of Real Madrid ……………..born in the crossfire hurricane, and he is jumping jack flash right here.............. Messi, you could drop a Tarantula into his shorts and he'd still be cool………………… As cool as the seeds inside of a cucumber".

Earlier he described Messi ‘s finish as “cleaner than Neutrogena” and “ wonderful control. He tattoos the ball to his feet.”

Mind you it’s hard to beat some of the praise he has previously showered on Messi, here are a few more:

“Defenders try to follow him on Facebook and he comes out on Twitter.”

“He burgulates the defence. He violates the intrusion. And in football, it’s legal!”

“Messi needs help like a shark needs a dentist”

Watch:        https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQZQADpna9Q

The trees in the moonlight

The trees in the moonlight are silent,

and the trees in the pond are still.

If there is malice,

it is not here by the pond in the moonlight.

Neither violence

nor hatred

nor greed.

There are no prejudices here,
but, sadness, oh my God,
sadness fills the air with the voices of thousands
whose throats have been slit,

here, where the trees are silent in the moonlight

by the pond.

An Alternative Interpretation of Megalithic Art

There's been a lot of water collecting in this blog lately, but before pumping it dry, here's one more interpretation of the megalithic art at Loughcrew and and other megalithic sites in Ireland.

Conwell engraving: detail from Cairn L, Loughcrew c. 1870

Concentric rings,

raindrops’ pockmarks,

undulations,  zigzags.

Rivers teeming life and light  ̶̶

smithereens of sun,  

spicules of stars  ̶

we took them from the water,

embellished the stones,

so they would flow into the bodies of our dead,

who would run with the rivers,

live to be old as the earth

shine bright as the stars.

SUMMER ORCHARD EVENING.

On an evening

when apple was eating the worm,

tree grating the sun

with some clouds, dusty birds;

the green cloth

was spread to the orchard wall.

I watched bees collecting post

while cat was a tea cosy

with dozey trip-wire eyes.

Suddenly dog alarm in the hedge

comes bursting from the undergrowth:

big game hunter

and cat gone steeplejack.

Then dog winks

and we stretch out,

and I go back to being a microscope

eyeball deep in daisies.

Thinking out loud.............faking politicians

When we tolerate lies from those who lead, don't we cede all rights to principled government, not just for now, but for the foreseeable future. Encourage future contenders for leadership to be, not just lax in their accountability to their people, but to be downright fraudulent in their practices; whatever is self-serving. Our tenuous regard for the truth, so often highlighted in our treatment of whistle-blowers, will leave us open to forms of leadership normally associated with dictatorship.

Sure Sight

I see
pearl-like
dawn
in
your face

a desolate
blue
yonder
in
your irises

the wash
of slivered
moonlight
in
your smile

I know of
nowhere
less trodden
more
perfect

I contract
to be
forever
an explorer
in that universe.

Rivers run

Eternity

Rivers run over the land:

slivered sky and light,

spindly bodies flowing,

fish and ripples one,

alive.

Clamouring in the high places,

lisping in the  low;

spry in youth,

sedate in old age;

always journeying to their end

to run again.

Looking at the detail

One of my favourite works of art, Mantegna’s extraordinary ‘Lamentation Over The Dead Christ’, is nearly too familiar. It would be easy to pan across the image and see much less than is there. Break it down to its detail and its brilliance is seen afresh.

It brings to mind the words of doubting Thomas “Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”

Look at the torn flesh in the feet, the open gashes in the back of the hands; you could put your finger into them.

And when the resurrected Jesus appears to the apostles and says to Thomas, “Put your finger here; see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it into my side. Stop doubting and believe”, he readily replies “My Lord and my God!”

This painting carries, magnificently, that strength to convince. 

The Salmon in the Spring, the Hazel and the Hermit

The prompt word for this poem was 'source'. Mythology is full of sources, and mythology comes with a plethora of suggestions,  all endlessly malleable. It provides a platform for creativity but with roots that give the work weight and resonance. The poem is a bit of a departure for me; feel free to comment.

The Salmon in the Spring, the Hazel and the Hermit

Into an open gob the hazelnuts fell,

so over the years the salmon grew

into a colossus.

A day came when one nut dropped, plumb-line,

to be devoured complete with husk

at the very moment of its agitation.

And in that very instant, the salmon spewed from its intestines

its knowledge of a thousand years;

that cascaded downhill

over the shilling bright stones,

through the ignorant meadows to the lake,

where they became part of an ever-shifting

circuit of water, weed, spume and silt.

A hermit, who lived by the lake,

doused his face, and drinking some of this potion

was instantly replete.

A hazel took root in his belly and he convulsed,

so that the stones unearthed by his flailing feet

filled the lake

and sent its waters flooding out,

onto to the plain where the people lived;

and they, too, in their turn, drank .

The Silver River

 Jacket, shirt and shoes;

 his socks and trousers

 neat on the bank;

 a small crowd watching from the bridge.

silver river running

 He was coming from a card game, late;

 the winnings in his pocket.

 There had been a woman,

 they had visited the priest.

silver river running

 But that’s long ago now;

 he worked the farm;

 a good worker, his neighbours said,

 always busy with the tractor.

silver river running

 He lived with his mother,

 who cooked his meals and managed the money;

 now, she was a great farming woman,

 everyone agreed.

silver river running

I have a photograph of him holding a child,

he didn’t look comfortable;

he sat for a while in the garden

but didn’t stay long.

silver river running