Reality is not what it seems

Am I my body? Am I my pain?

Look back at a feint siesta

With nostalgia for a time
On the past that is living now but

Inaccessible to me

That is not a ghost but
A living thing as real as

The past was real at the time

Is now somehow breathed in the air of a
Future unsent but unsealed

That breathes back to me stranded here 

Constantly in the now that knows no limit
But can never be found as it 

Spins me round its vortex in

A hundred overlapping ways that cancel
Each other out in a loud crash as 

Silent as the big bang must be all these 

Years ago again in my mind eye.

Anchor Thought

Unknown grain that
Feeds the pearl remains
The mystery that proves
Impossible realities and
Blows everythig whole
Again that once was shot.

Money makes other ideas real

I’ll give you a
Queen you’ve seen
A million times before
Printed on expensive paper
And you give me a portion of
The universe, great or small,
Latte or yacht, depending
On how many more queens you
Think I have got.

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.

No Further

Actually the button is

Never lost and the

Coin is always dropping

The hand is flying

And the soul is stopping

In its split seconds as

We realise that the

Truths of time are

Erratic as the soul and

Times that by infinity.

Snow Globe

A person and a  penguin , in conversation

 

Person:

 ‘Accessories are what it’s all about –

Hats, scarves, bangles worn over gloves,

Keeping warm  in the snow,  nothing

Else counts  when you’re cold and wet too –

Suddenly life contracts to a quick pulse

In the chest, trying to beat Frost and reach

Hands and feet first.

Penguin: 

Keep the shuffle going, to and fro,

Across the glacier, here

And there a slide and skate

Punctuated with the odd skid

And backwards swirl, churning

The blood through warm wings or,

As we call them, waistcoat fins.

Person:

‘Where are we going in all

This white, what paths shall

 We black when all previous

Tracks are under four metres of

Soft silence and the only clues

 are foxing paths deviating on

a scent we’ll never crack?

 Penguin:

Why ask where we are going?

 There is no direction

To go in because we are

Home, our feet make it

Newly, every step

into top snow .

Person:

‘Don’t you ever ponder,

One day, ice gone,

you’ll be swimming Through

to Death or simply,

wait for Life to

Pass, from the last

Raft of rock?

Penguin:

‘And what does it matter?

I feel my egg between our

 Feet and know to protect

And honour –

Our pact – we three:

Her, egg and me.’

 

 

 

 

 

Another conversation, same person, same penguin

 

Person:

What use is breeding? One

More penguin when there

Are thousands

Picking fights to 

Get to the inside.’

Penguin:

Who are you to ask why?

You have over engineered

Your brain so that

No fuel is compatible and it

Eats itself for food.’

Person:

‘Still, must be more to Life than

Eggs that may

Never survive and hatched,

What will it do? Make more

Eggs like you?

Penguin:

Better that than

Unhappy with what

I have, thirsty for what

I haven’t need, hungry

For what I’ve just gorged on.

The ice is melting

And we’re all on it –

Melting it more

In the warmth of shared space – nothing

More, nothing less.

Reality abides with us,

Quietly, no fuss at the fading snow.