of these buildings
to come visiting
across the garden
when childhood
and youth
have gone
when middle age
has taken residence
in my body
giving me hypertension
now it’s that rocket
in the middle
of that garden
that knocks
on my mind
reminding me
of my boy glimpse
into the atmosphere
the world beyond
the sky
I could not see
well it’s that same world
where I’d like to be
O woe is me
I’m an old monkey
hanging from a tree.
on a big thought
with that in its mouth
it has slumped
heavy
in a corner
the thought talks its own talk
words grow out of it
building
collapsing
my mind desperately tries to reach someplace
divided in itself
disappearing
under its own weight.
The above poem is from my second book Circling the Sky (2013).
won’t go
see the sparrow
sitting on the grass
hopping onto the railings
and then over the grey road
to someone’s kitchen window.
What I’m trying to say is that
it is better to know this
when the heavy evening
having lost her happiness
comes to you
there quiet in your bed
it lays down in
the dark with you
then you know the meaning
of sorrow
the day changing its clothes
bored
and the stars racing in the sky
having outrun your sleep
see how this world drifts
unmoored
and when you wake in the
morning
the sparrow comes and
tells you this
then how easily
the whole thing
becomes a song
just like that
how the planes of joy
crisscross the sky
how the mind once again
comes home
and dances
delighted.
The above poem is from my first book Reeling (2012).
is bad
it will not let me think
it leaves me here
sitting stupid
and sad
I will not have this
I think of trees
and remember the time
I first encountered
a squirrel
and my wonder
at it
in the cool morning
behind my house
where I stood on
ground covered in golden laburnum
and the squirrel
grey fluffy cute
with black stripes
climbing up the tree
pointing into the blue sky
I look at the birds flying
small black ones
in flocks
and I know
I am one of them
I feel what they feel
I feel the wind on my body
and I know I am home
in this vast dome
and now as I write
the squirrel runs out of sight.
I had two old beds;
their headboards
of blue sun mica
were the most beautiful
things in the world.
There’s World War II
over the lime-washed buildings;
you can see the fighter planes,
the pilots in their
helmets and goggles at night…
Broken, shabby houses…
run-down bars
animal people talk…
Naked men and women,
emaciated, speaking
some strange language
join us in the streets…
In the morning when I wake
I notice the sky has backed
deeper and deeper
into silence…
The above poem is from my second book Circling the Sky (2013).
