The search for my body
Continues.
Can ritual give it shape
Once more. A walking.
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Day 13. Camino
I am a poet pilgrim
In that I am sure.
If it does not require
Faith, I cannot see it.
Day 12. Camino
Wonder is timed
The rhythm is taught.
When snapped it dies.
Until the next time.
My steps are too slow,
Wind me up again.
Day 11. Camino
Already the time is dropping
Out of control.
I’ve forgotten the road
The arrows are not
Strong , let me see a shell
Today, just one.
Day 9. Camino
‘When you master something,
you have to run away and do
something else.’ Unknown
‘If an ideas new to you, then it’s
new. As artists we are creating our world,
our way.’ David Lynch
‘It’s an important experience to look back before moving on to something else’. Harry Nuriev.
Day 5. Camino
Little women in fleeces polishing things
And in a rush for Easter, the busiest day, the pressure to raise the right sum.
Tapped my card to the screen
By Saint Margaret’s shrine , ten pounds
Like a miracle from me to her.
Day 4. Camino
Larger, harder times, cathedrals,
Mall-like in their entirety, monopoly on
Human life and thought with death
Built in, to wall and floor and roof.
Little faces everywhere of animal and
Angel, daring us to sin.
Day 1. Camino
I started without rules
I stumbled into this day
I was all knitted to its
Sugars and salts.
Pilgrim was a hope word
In the morning
Scrambled by night into
Lost hours, and I tasted it,
Almost dead.
The mouse
A little package of furry hunger
Scratching at the hidden
Corners of our lives, dashing
Between a fallen rice crispy
Here, a popped pumpkin seed
There, a forgotten pod of arborio
Or basmati, no longer safe behind the stove.
The little patter of complacency,
A little token from the underworld,
The wide world outside, the
World of keen smells and bendy
Eyes, scanning Nature for
Morsels of respite between the
Springs of my trap
Sorry little one, quick one
I am sorry and I hope
You find another place
To call your own, you
Are not welcome here
Sink back into Nature’s
Raw Peace
London’s bleeding, London’s bleeding, fetch the engines…
So many of us have
Noone but the people
We love. And everyone
Else, they, they are not
Loved. Loved ones are
Warm. Everyone Else is
Out there, there in the
Night, every day, night
In, night out, night
Owls without feathers
To flap over their empty
Guts as they spew spit
And cough phlegm into the
Ruts on their palms
Long lines cutting round
Their thumbs, cut off
Too soon, so the tealeaves
Would say, if they had
Tea, hot water and a cup and
A spoon full of sugar to
Sweeten them into something
Warmer than blood
Being Every Day 