...
the past is not another world
just a waypoint to the present
that we present ourselves
gathering dust the books we read
spark and shift in ideas
incompatible often
with that we have misheard
conflicting in gossip
...
the past comes dripping back
in angry scraps that conflict
with themes
or the fraying seams tugged
they pull apart leaving wheat straw
of unburnt fields
the ashen earth to grow
hopeful sapling stirring
of the flower we wish to be
....
since they came I find myself unsure
though the truth remains
the facts change
moving to find a fitting lug
in the fluid flow of thinking
yet nothing remains intact
or fits exact
and the fret holes of emotion
will not bite or hold the pattern
for if that scream holds true
it will not fit with the time
and if the space is changed
this picture remains unframed
bare of shape
I am but mad
...
waiting for the heatwave
for the shortage of sun burnt air
the clatter of ice cream scoop
squawk and chatter the bread fed ducks
on the radio dire warnings
we must check on our neighbour
and pay particular attention
to the young and very old
everywhere reddened shoulders
draining becks stone-peeped and dry
the thunking clunk of picnic rugs
under trees in the park
....
where has the sunlight gone
everywhere is green and bright
swelling proud in sunlight
sweat mopped brows under tinted glass
at pavement tables
tan to brown
arms hand heavy as knotted cords
swing like elephant ears
...
home is where the heart is
they say
ignoring the soul
and that part of god
which longs for silence
that peace
stretches it's divinity
to a size beyond capacity
in which all the world is in one's grasp
in sublimation of our petite self
for all the riches of the earth
are base as flint napped wood
....
between the breeze sweet burns the skin
as single air-liner rises on four tales
the vapour in folly zipping the sky
....
glissando grey the night hides
in lingered slide to dark
above the rain glossed slates
gentle plasma in reflection
of the spectrum candle
on the window pane
...
peace)
The Blue Book
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