THE MOVIES
Late autumn, the day retired early night infiltrated
streets and bus shelters. Eight old men sat in my café
drank coffee and looked into their own mythical past.
As by a secret sign, they got up and filed out, curious
I followed and saw them walk to the harbour, down
a ramp where the ferry docked, and into the sea made
yellow by hazy lights. Back in the café, the waitress used
my phone, an old woman had stuck an ashtray into her
handbag, she doesn't smoke, it was for her father, she
said who used to smoke now, however he's cremated.
Later the men returned but they were shadows only I
could see and when a young generation of cinemagoers
came for coffee and talk about the movie they had seen
keeping my waitress busy and away from the phone,
the old men's presence faded and settled as dust on
windowsills.
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MOOSE
A long legged, non domestic cow peacefully
graced in the glade the forest's birds thrilled
and red squirrels played in three tops. Since
it was a warm day the cow swam in the lake
and later rubbed its behind up against an oak
A hunter, a sentimental, kind man took in this
scene of tranquillity before he cocked his gun
and shot the cow dead. Before taking out his
skinning knife he patted the cows head and
his eyes were moist.
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VIOLENT SILENCE
Broken windows, bottles smashed against
walls in drunken rouse, anger released for
now unable as he is to express what's in his
heart. A sea's pressure against a fragile dike
a flood of pain and self-hatred bursting forth
creating havoc and misery in its wake. His
own life wrecked, more than those he hurt whom
can start again. Thoughts unexpressed words
unspoken a dark silence waiting for violence.
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A SONG FOR A HOUSEWIFE
Oh wide hipped, heavy bosomed housewife carrier
of plastic bags and wearer of sensible shoes walking
down the street of life why can't I love you? Your
home is a furniture store, can't write my name on
any surface the mahogany cabinet proudly gleams
a polished brass key in its lock tells of cherished,
if useless, possessions. What a perfect widow you'll
be, putting my picture and the mantle-piece, dusting
me everyday and go on living as you always have
busy cleaning. something.
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DREAMING AN OCEAN
To see the sea again large drops of rain osculate
a whispering that falls on a foamy, green carpet.
When downpour stops my ocean is a mirror that
Reflects nothing but its own image.the sky. On
millions of illusions I shall forever sail. Sparkling
salt on a rusty deck, ocean's dust keeps my secret.
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DAYS OF SILENCE
My village is so quiet that I can hear flies talk mostly
they chatter about food, enormous predatory sparrows
and wars they wage against bees. A fly wrote a book on
the surface of my coffee table, thousands came and read
before the cleaner, with her yellow duster arrived.
The book's sagacity became part of dipterans collective
memories. Aware of their on worth they no longer buzz
softly in corners, turn their noses up when offered cow
dung, only a beer drinkers vomit, rancid butter and horse
manure will suffice. Oh dipterous, confident insect do
whatever you like, but don't crawl up a mule's nose,
wash your face in an open latrine and then leave tiny
pellets of excreta in the sugar bowl
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SAHARA
I've crossed life's Sahara, it took years and I'm now
returning to the point of my beginning. There are
dreams and beauty in sand dunes one day a stormy
ocean then a petrified sea. I avoided green oasis
a friend lost his camels there sits under a palm tree
and dreams of yesterday. I saw a ship sail upside
down across the horizon but that was long ago when
time could sing. The moon, over a forever moving
silence, belongs to the wanderer to us who saw its
wonder and found our way back home.
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A NIGHT
Police sirens tore into the night and darkness
undulated flooded shop entrances and yards
before settling back to a blank mirror. Stars
snowed in the outer galaxy, a few flakes fell
into the street and glowed on tar. Buildings'
eyelids opened looked out with disinterest,
went back to sleep again. Silence dripped on
roof tiles and kept the lonely awake
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AFTERNOON
In a twister of memories in a flow of loss,
fragments of a summer floats by its pieces
I try to assemble make picture of a puzzle
where your face is missing, But not your
fragrance. Was it a dream? Are you real?
Did I go wrong and missed my summer?
Are you an ideal I've yet to meet? It's late
I must find you now! Before my ship sets
sail on an ocean of dark mirrors.
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NEGLECT
I walk on a field abandoned thrown away, discarded
like a threadbare carpet. Brown earth with spots of
green where yellow plastic bags full of decay flaps in
the wind of discontent and beer cans rust. Broken
chairs a sad pram and a much loved upon mattress
that emits cries of life unborn. Here, there's no need
for me to wear a clown's mask, I'm alone and can lie
claim to this discarded earth as mine.
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