- it rains - hails - snows - clouds skit
but it doesn't do much beyond being sky
...
I'm terrified of this pencil
the vast expanse of this paper
and the stuffed bird
....
there was once bump
then a baby
and no sooner do you get used to them
than you are buying a hat
...
when the dull and conventionally contemporary attack you
take as a compliment of their dullness and your relevance
...
in the kingdom of small things
we all are kings and queens
though more often we are knaves
breaking hearts with clubs
...
on the buttocks of hills
the lambs run in gangs
...
those cheery shadows up on the rocks
cataract spots against the sky
- small as birds before the moon
...
through the blurring of trees out-roll the fields
enclosed in patched hedge and wall
flock dotted cream and white
...
the beauty of a poem
lies no in what we see or taste or feel
none of that is real
- but what is left behind
..
hidden griefs
to cloak our secret discontents
- of true significance
..
I wanted to be a stand-up
but was scared of the booing -
so I opted for poetry
and the implicit crassness
of hecklers
..
the tulips in the memorial garden
pout under the caterwaul
of children - all in costume -
gathering for the grand parade
...
england and ireland
are brothers divided
by the unwed and jealous
scots and welsh sisters
...
in the days when there was only meat
they ate flowers as a treat
and honey to sweeten
the pottage of evening
...
of course not
you wouldn't believe in doctors
if you believed in death
..
this is not a statement of authority
and will not be until I place a full stop
...
and today I shall be happy -
wear carnations for buttons
and say how-do to the robin
on the fencepost
...
I'm told I'm cold
or perhaps chilly
though I try to be bold
I'm often silly - like us
...
peace:)
The Blue Book
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