poet

Sidelines


We are loping in the margins, waiting For time to become ours again.
The margins get smaller as Larger type fills the page.

Father P.C.M. (Precious Childhood Memories)

So many, I should be able to shuffle
Them like cards and arrange them
Into different hands, full house, two pair
Et cetera Et cetera. So many hands, so

Alive the days, the hours growing under
Your gaze, facts great and small tumbling
Out of your hard working teeth, so much
Enjoyed the taste of living, the joys great

And small, coursing along the network
Through the high voltage bangs “Christ”
“******” And back again, looking for the next
Buzz, lighting the way, the room, the earth.

How old am I? My age is…

A leap of time
Between Death and
Knowing;  

Curving
Round my soul,
It streaks out to the
Stars, becoming light,

It fuels
Me on or in or
Back or round,  

Depending
On how I look at it or
Listen in.

On Holiday

The runway brings wonder,
Breathing its strange breath,
Promising nourishment like
The heave of swollen teats.  

In the the car on the wrong
Side, we can’t read the signs, passing fast
The radio means nothing, gushing
Loud then soft, like the sea.  

In the old town, new to us, the shops
Feature treats. We eat as much as we can,
Looked on by History, never stopping to
Look up at her stories,  

Soon we will be going back, 4
More days of unforecast choices before
We lift off and die and memories cake us in
Nostalgia until we are born again.    

Hope for the New Year

New water will direct
All four corners of
The soul that
Wander without berth
The nautics between
Doubt and sight,
Darkness and love.

Epitaph for Grandpa Pete

Stanley
Peter Merer,
Architect, sailor, spitfire
Survivor.

Zoom up –
SWERVE, the tropics
And dales, war to peace:
Air to sea.

He ruled
New colours and     
Shapes that could tame breezing light
Like the best
Sails and wings.          

Grandparents, Reunited.

She had bright
Red papier mâché,
He, a thick oak.  

Between funerals,
The years, brittle,
Wan, now mingled
With the best ones –  

Dusty joy,
Shared; striding, touching,
Swimming through the wind.

Telepath

There is love, in the
Air, breath it in,
Breathe it out, leave

It at that, do not
Try to fill the lungs
With blood or the
Heart with air.

Keeping it real

We make what ifs and isn’ts

To feed our minds fresh memories

 

What can be made can be

Seen, what can be seen, is.

 

Still life cannot be stopped,

It was there before easel,

 

We can only sit in silence

And find peace in mimicry.