Us

I was lost, vision grown dim
Hands outstretched like bones to touch
Feeling nothing, voice for no-one,
And you came to me,
Eyes glittering, lambswool in the morning dew,
Filaments aglow.
Your hands were my hands,
Skin on my bone, the world revealed,
And we danced, and the sun was alive,
And the shadows fell back to the corners.
I was lost, but you came to me.
I was dumb but you breathed your voice through me,
Forgave me, with a whirl of feathers and pine needles
You spun me. Now I'm yours.
You loved me and we built
Us.

Candles and catholics

The venom in the fog
Deep and green the fetid breath
Motion becomes stillness
Paralysis of eye and arm.
Squirrels in the hanging tree
Ravens crack their beaks in joy,
The silver's left the mercury
And barren ground births mud. 

Ladders climb into the sky,
Lianas writhe like beaded priests in ecstasy
Hearts in thuribles, blood in mist,
Red and black it drips.
The fan-tailed hum of broken glass
As footsteps tread on radio waves
And flowers shade the children's eyes
From the poison in the air.

Mechanical music

With a flick and a spin the spindle spits
The marble clean along the track
And mirrored metal guides the ball
Through fly-wheels geared to increase speed
And floating corners banked to feed
That pinball hurtling back.

Through a tunnel into the light
Of a flamboyant heretical chef,
With utensils used in unknown ways
Under a grater into a sieve
Where it spirals round and shoots out with
The bass whirl of a clef.

Sparks and dust

Poet's ear
Devil's thumb
These things are mine
Like pentecost belongs to christ,
Creased and unsubtle,
Warm and dangerous.
These things parade around my thoughts.
At night, the dark is full of sparks,
Crash and burn they filter down
Like thunder, coiled and hot.
Dust is spread.
Dust is spent like gold upon the temple steps.
The sun is made of weightless specks.
Spinning through space
We find our gravity wells around us,
Dense and curved like pie dishes.
Thoughts made physical.
Dreams of ice and stone.
Writ large bituminous sky's ebb.
A pie with my thumb thrust in.

Mary had a crocodile

Mary had a crocodile
Its skin was green and scaly
She kept it calm and docile
With her six-string ukulele.

She sung it songs and nursery rhymes
It kept time with its tail
She walked it through the park
Every lunchtime without fail.

But then one Thursday morning
Her highest C-string broke
The crocodile's eyes flickered
And its tail stopped mid-stroke.

Mary had a crocodile
Or should I rather say
The crocodile had Mary
For lunch on that Thursday.

Three lives

The calm of pigment leaving the brush
As all those gestures fade
Pinks and blacks predominant
Flicked and planted

Pulling a ploughed comb
Left to right
His furrowed crown
Hurtling to a standstill

The brickwork splits
Corrupted steel
Persistent flecks of mortared life
As curtains flutter in the final breeze

Bed time

And so it's done
Warm, well fed
Presents unwrapped
Children in bed
Crackers pulled
Legs unfurled
Santa's flown
Around the world
All is peace
All aglow
A bit too warm
For any snow
Yawns all round
That cake can keep
Let's wrap it up
And go to sleep.

4, 3, 2, 1

I had four legs in the evening,
Three sheets to the wind,
Two more hours to go tonight
To that one day of the year.

But there's one little problem,
There are two too many chairs,
Three days ago she left me
With my daughter and four teddy bears.

1, 2, 3, 4, no more.
4, 3, 2, 1, I'm gone.

Humbugs

A long night wrapping presents
A long day prepping food
A CD full of music
To get us in the mood

An angel on a treetop
A hoover round the house
A tissue or two under a nose
A trap out for the mouse

A fridge and freezer fit to burst
A wreath hung on the door
Christmas comes but once a year
I'm glad it isn't more!

Insomnia

As Nature turns her head and snores
I lie awake and read some more
Read until my eyes are sore
Look at the clock, it's half-past four.

I don't know why I cannot sleep
It's been this way almost a week
As thoughts of work and worries creep
Into my head, then sit and steep
And my internal alarm continuously beeps:
Why can't I sleep?
WHY CAN'T I SLEEP?

History

In the heat and the smoke the muskets fire
The shot flies true, the redcoats fall.
And in the future those who fell
Will find their names upon a wall.

Is it enough to remember?
Is eternity worth the price
Of thousands of wandering ghosts
And thousands of ruined lives?

History is written by the victors,
But only the commanders in chief.
No words are heard from the mothers
With their boys six feet beneath.

The seven pointed star

The seven pointed star
Pressed between the night's empire
Half a fall and half removal
Blessed with rhetoric
Cursed by birth.
Gentle is the touch of gravity
Separate from the magnet's spin,
Liquid sand made clear
Heart in a canopic jar.
I give my darkness
You take my light.

Timings

Timings and how wrong they go,
A subject dear to my heart,
Everything crawls to a slow
Pretty much right from the start.

The biggest problem seems to be
Guessing preparation times,
I've barely trimmed the broccoli
Before the minute minder chimes.

The worst of these are small shallots,
Those perfect pearls with paper shells,
They fill my eyes with tearful spots
And make me curse their name to hell.

The skins rip no matter what I try,
The bulbs split into tiny shapes
Impossible to chop, but I
Cut fingers on them anyway.

They make me screw my eyes tight shut
As I skin those beasts alive,
Take forty minutes to cut
And I only budgeted for five.

As a result, the sprouts are burnt,
The pies have sighed their last, I fear.
You'd think by now I would have learnt,
I do the same thing every year.

Green

Butterfly wings and curtain ropes
Such things too green for nature glow
As the moss that grows on mountain streams
Or the young man's buoyant hopes.

The night's torches cut through dreams
As illness cuts a life too short,
And the scent of immortality burns
A lustrous iridescent green.

Alone in company

Out of place and out of time,
The razor swings unfailingly
As friendship's blade withdrawn, withdrawn.
No space to think.
Too much space to think.
Drowning in an uncertain lake,
Calm and silent as I sink.
Cemetery faces turn tombstone eyes
And I close mine.
Dreaming of a church of trees
Boughs of solitude sheltering me.
I open my mouth and let the water in.
No choking, no struggling as I leave.

Meandering fog

Lost in that fog of frozen ghosts
The mind makes mountains of misted sheep.
An edifice of crumbling brick
Takes form and substance step by step.
Alongside dwells a slow canal
Still and silvered, no certain ends.
What magnetism pulls my shrouded feet?
I cannot tell, nor need but trust
Instinct's map is accurate
As vision's vaunted truths belie.

The man who would be a cat

He sits like a cat, licking the backs of his hands
Purring and pausing to rub his cheek.

The train is full of whispers
Private conversations
Apologies and arguments
And they notice
Notice the man who would be a cat
And they whisper
Poison spreads like laughter.

He sits like a cat, curling his whiskers
Giving no heed as the train winds and whispers.

The house

A blur of chambers
Hall to hall
Questions parried, decisions made.
The mace on the table
Time waits for no man
Voices and voices but nothing is said.
The listening stones
Grey and honeyed
Broken by glass, statuesque.
Candles burning
End to end
Smoke and mirrors surround each desk.

The circus

Circus at the edge of town
At night I thread through straining ropes
One tug could bring the whole thing down
All those dreams, all those hopes.

Ignoring the devil's mischievous cry
I leave the pegs and move on through
Into the light and noise inside
Clowns and crowds and chaos and you.

Werekids

My children must be werekids
That's the only explanation I see
For why when the moon is full in the sky
They lose all sensibility.

They see that shining face up there
And it eggs them on to madness,
Hyperactive sleepless nights,
And in the morning sadness.

Building a Castle

Like a puzzle the pieces fit together
A jigsaw with only a mental image,
Curtain wall to near-side turret
Lift the peg to fit the buttress...
The keep's fallen over!
One hand hold the battlements
The other secure the inner wall,
As a foot keeps shut the drawbridge
While the other dangles in the moat.
Gently now, ease tower tab to tower slot,
And in.
Gate posts locked,
Machicolation aligned,
Balconies arranged just so,
Crowned with a flag, victoriously perched.
All ready for tomorrow's battle of the princess and the unicorn.

Mince pies at midnight

The butter's too cold, the mixer's bust
The pastry will never have a perfect crust
And now it won't roll, it's way too short
This recipe's far harder than I thought.
There's bits sticking everywhere, what a disaster
10 o'clock already! I've got to go faster.
Oh, just squeeze them in, no one will know
Squodge them and bodge them so the cracks won't show.
Didn't make enough, did I roll them too thick?
None for Dad, then, but sugar makes him sick.
Now for the mincemeat, don't overfill
There's nothing worse to wash if it spills.
And into the freezer, just squash the peas down,
It still won't fit? Throw them out on the ground.
Now slam the lid closed, sit on it tight.
They'll be fine until Christmas night.

In the blue of night

The world is ringing
It never stops
Forlorn hope for
A silent pause.
No space to roam
That dream discarded
No respite from
The closing in.
Like a knot in wood
The path is blocked,
In a weakened state
The pain is real.
No end in sight
But the one not taken
Demands not met
No tears at the close.

The picnic

Orange blossom water evaporates
Leaving but a giggle
A light echo of scent in the sun
All of us but this is gone.
We picnicked on prosecco-poached peaches
Melting dolcelatte figs
Dukka and full-fruited oil-dipped bread
We savoured that as it dripped and drizzled
Warm from the sun and spiked with conversation.
Biting on primed tomato bombs
Pulling rich strings of mozzarella and polenta
We lost ourselves in that afternoon
In meringues floating on morello lakes
In muscatel and pear granita
And laughing, we locked our eyes
Muddled strawberries flecked with orange blossom water.
The sunlight eased from the afternoon
With nothing but scent behind us.

Two terrible limericks

There was a penguin from Antarctica
Who didn't know how it should start-a-car,
It pecked at the clutch,
Which didn't do much,
And so it's still stuck in Antarctica.

There was an old man at the Pole
Who constantly begged, borrowed and stole,
His reindeer groaned under
The weight of his plunder
As he flew them all over the globe.

Sky songs

Sing out, pale sky, the sun it falls
From mountain top to valley floor.
Sing out, pearled cloud, reflecting rays
Of silver, bright crack of a closing door.

Sing herringbone falsetto
Farewell to the days of June.
From each cardinal point, sing
Lullabies to the pillowed moon.

The Pathroom

The orange button flashed invitingly as my finger descended, and was met with the sharp crack of a wooden ruler.
   "Ow!"
      "Don't touch that one. Not yet, anyway. We don't know when we're going."
   "I thought we were going now?"
      "We are going now, but we don't know when we are going to."
My partner was a slightly too slick scientist by the name of Reinhard Yabuttie, or Yab for short (well, a lot of people called him Butty for short, but not to his face). His hair was slightly too smooth, and in a slightly too greasy ponytail. His slightly too hooked nose hung slightly too low over his slightly too droopy moustache. None of the other detectives could stand him - especially the other ladies - so by virtue of the fact that I could stomach him more than most, I was sent on this pointless assignment.
   "So you saw the suspect run into that chamber, but he didn't come out?"
      "Nothing comes out."
   "And we can't go in there because...?"
      "We can go in there, just not yet. I need to track down when he went."
   "I thought you said it was about half an hour ago?"
      "Please, Miss Simmons."
   "Detective Simmons."
      "Detective Simmons. Have you listened to a anything that I've said? That chamber is an...Aha!"
A screen suddenly flared into life, streaming characters and strings of numbers that Yab excitedly jabbed his finger at, his eyes dancing excitedly.
      "I've tracked him. Quickly, press that button now."
I did what I was told and pressed the orange button, with no answering thwack this time. Instead, the door to the chamber clicked open and Yab hopped over and slipped inside, beckoning impatiently for me to follow. Inside was a single table with a chair at either end. It looked a little like an interrogation room. Yab sat down and the door automatically clicked shut behind me.
   "So what do we..."
      "Sit, Miss Simmons!" Yab ordered, and for once I didn't correct him. There was something strange about this room, as if the edges of my vision were blurred. I sat, and Yab reached out to grab my hands.
   "Hey!" I said, instinctively withdrawing, "What do you think you're doing?"
      "Please, Mel, this is important."
Something in his tone made me believe him, and I reached out and let him take my hands across the table. As he did so, there was a beep from the machines outside and then ... I don't know how to explain it. The corners of the room neatly folded in upon themselves and suddenly we weren't sitting in that sterile chamber, we were sitting in an enamelled bathtub in the middle of a large, almost circular room with doors all the way around it. Slightly too many doors.
      "Oh, we're in the pathroom", Yab proclaimed, looking around.
   "I can see we're in a bathroom", I said, "but what the heck are we doing here?"
      "No, not the bathroom, the pathroom. The nexus. A place rich in mythomechanical energy. These doors can lead you anywhen."

The Thorns of Love

Erase, erase
And lock away the thoughts of you.
Withdraw the offered arm
And shiver, standing proud
Old Harry Rock against my sea.

Collapse, collapse
Pull away supports from you.
Flush juvenile habits, touching dreams
That warm your nights and cool the morn.
The thorns of love around my rose.

Destroy, destroy
And mute the words I brought to you.
Force silent nights of charity wasted
In callous song, huddled round
Dying embers of my fire.

Menmes and Menus

Three weeks to make one sauce,
You can tell it's Christmas.
The endless cycle of cutting and cooking.
Still don't really know what to make,
But there's bound to be gravy.
There's always gravy.
A pie? - Too dry.
Nut roast? - More common than most.
Cauliflower steak? - We'd be gassed before cake.
Root vegetable stew? - I wouldn't if I were you.
Tarte tatin? - That's not in the plan.
Squash boiled in Coke? - Is that some kind of joke?
Cheese and leek plait? - More festive than that!
Cranberry kedgeree? - What? Are you kidding me?
Well I give up, it's your turn to try. - How about pie?

Life and the spinning of the earth

I begin in springtime
As the snake's head bends
And bursts from the grass in chequerboard.
The ecstasy of youth has no end.

I dance as caterpillars wake
And take their first taste from Nature's cup.
Curling to my knees I plant my seeds
Both sacred and corrupt.

In summer, as gardenias bloom
And virgin petals drink the sun
Echoing that splendour in the night
Calling the moths to come.

As I, too, savour night's caress,
The long light warmth of song,
But footsteps in the shell-strewn sand,
Are temporary, as we all become.

I hang my head as apple boughs
Bear fealty under heavy fruit,
As every day brings solitude,
Alone in this mocking pigeon suit.

And as the glut of windfalls builds
Wasps crowd above the speckled rot.
What I thought I'd sown in spring
Turns out I did not.

Winter doesn't hide its light,
From field to field the cold earth bared.
All that grows is broken skin,
Though it's long past the point I cared.

Here in my life's December
There's nothing left to save.
And as the frosts blacken the rosemary
I steel my soul for the grave.

My own private kubla khan

This morning, in a flash of inspiration,
Three lines came to me.
Three perfect lines.
I knew I had to write them down quickly,
Had to capture that magic,
But we were late, and school waits for no man.
Walking up, I repeated them to myself,
Over and over like a mantra.
Navigating children's conversations,
Keeping threads untwined,
Those perfect lines glowing,
Guiding me home.
And there, paper snatched, pen poised,
The phone rings and it's gone.

Natural law

The zebra shakes its tail and laughs,
The lion roars with all its might.
The zebra scampers on all fours
As the lion tries to take a bite.

"Ow, Max, no!" the zebra cries,
"You shouldn't bite me in real life."
The lion gives a wicked grin
Flashing teeth as sharp as a knife.

Zebra runs, lion roars
While upstairs, daddy snores.