Wild Bird
A wild bird has built
her nest in my heart.
Her blood-beat
flutters new rhythms.
Birdsong streams
sunlight in my pulse.
Afloat I knew the sea-
surge lift and pull.
Now hot blood rises
with the sun and sets
with this glorious fall
from heaven to earth:
sweet helter-skelter
glide of current and cloud.
Hair is to head
as feather is to nest.
The egg of my skull
shows hairline cracks:
tiny beaks pecking
fine-tuned sparks of song.
Monkey Presses Delete
Monkey loves walking behind the gorillas.
He loves to see fear in faces, tears in eyes
as the gorillas smash and grab and break down doors.
The gorillas break and enter: and when they do,
monkey simply points and gorillas do their thing:
it’s that simple …
Monkey has a code word he took from his computer course.
“Delete!” he says with delight
and the gorillas delete whatever he points to.
He loves deleting parents in front of children,
though deleting children in front of their parents
can be just as exciting.
He also loves burning other people’s books
and deleting their web pages.
The delete button excites monkey:
maneuvering the mouse tightens his scrotum
and he feels a kick like a baby’s at the bottom of his belly
as he carefully selects his victim and “Delete!”
The gorillas go into action:
ten, twenty, thirty, fifty, seventy years of existence
deleted with a gesture
and the click of an index finger pointed like a gun.
Monkey Throws Away the Keys
Monkey is tired of writing reports
that are never read.
He is fed up with frequently asked
questions and their unread answers.
To every lock, there is a key.
Monkey looks at the red and gold
locks of the last orang-utangs
and wonders how to unpick their DNA.
Monkey would give his kingdom
for a key, a key, a little silver key:
the key to a situation, the key to a heart,
the office key, the key to the door,
at twenty-one, the keys of fate,
the Florida keys, the key to San
Francisco’s Golden Gate,
a passe-partout, a skeleton key,
the key to Mother Hubbard’s
cupboard, where she hides dry bones …
On the last day, when monkey leaves work
he takes a lifetime of keys
and throws them down a deep dark well.
As they halve the distance to the water,
he listens to the sound of silence
and wonders if they’ll ever hit the bottom.
Late Summer Angel
“It’s good to stop, while mowing,
and to rescue that one red leaf,
and that one yellow leaf,
and that other leaf
the sun has spotted,
like an old man’s hand.
And it’s good to stay
bent over for a while,
to rest and to gaze
at the October fungi,
mushrooms and toadstools,
thrusting from the earth:
puff balls, dust balls,
little brown umbrellas.
And it’s good to see
where the moles
have dug new houses.”
“Better yet,”
says the autumn angel,
“is to stand beneath
the trees, drinking up
the sunlight.
Raise your hand and see
your skin fragmented
into a coat of many colors.”
Sunshine through
a stained glass window.
Light rains
droplets down
through speckled leaves.
Note: Late Summer Angel is from All About Angels, the poetry collection that I am currently revising for re-publication. It will be available online at Amazon and Kindle in time for Christmas, 2016.
October Angel
birds peck their way
through egg shell skies
in search of summer
ice pellets strike dead foliage
the October Angel
hangs suet from the rowan
a finger of wind
stirs stubborn leaves
whirling them round and round
in a carousel of color
she gathers her evening gown
and walks among ruined flowers
a snapdragon opens
the frosted forge of its mouth
and sprinkles the sky
with ice-hard shards of fire
Note: October Angel is from All About Angels, the poetry collection that I am currently revising for re-publication.
In Absentia
6
Bad Hair Day
It all started when I rolled over at 4:00 am and heard the grandfather clock in the hall strike three. I double checked my watch with the alarm clock. It was definitely four o’clock. The grandfather clock, older than me, had to be wrong.
I sat up in bed and blinked. The light of the telephone flashed on and off. Someone had left me a message. The message machine was downstairs along with the grandfather clock. No way I thought I’m not going down there, not even for two birds with one stone. I rolled back the other way, stuck my head under the blankets, and tried to go back to sleep. I could sense the flashing light, even if I couldn’t see it and the Westminster Chimes played false notes, sometimes one too short, sometimes one too many. I counted them instead of sheep and couldn’t fall asleep.
At six o’clock, with the room in darkness save for that ever-flashing light, I struggled out of bed. I had dumped my dirty clothes in the laundry basket and I needed everything clean and fresh. I hobbled to the chest of drawers and pulled out socks and pants. Then I went to the clothes closet and took a clean shirt off the hanger. My pants went on more easily than usual and my shirt just slipped over my head. I hauled up my jeans and placed my first sock on the sock machine. It felt a bit awkward, but went on with no real problem. The same with the second sock.
I removed my pocket flashlight from Teddy’s ear where I keep it overnight and tucked it into my shirt pocket. It fell to the floor. I checked my chest … no pocket. I noticed a bulge on the right hand side where no pocket should be … pocket … but inside the shirt. I reached up to the buttons and they too were inside the shirt. To hell with it I thought I can’t be bothered to change. I slipped my Birkenstocks on and felt a lump under my left foot. The heel had slipped under the arch. My sock machine had failed me. I checked the right foot. I could see the heel all right: it was in the middle of my foot just above the toes.
By now I needed the bathroom so I hobbled across to it. No flashlight in my non-existent pocket, not wishing to turn on the bathroom lights, I fumbled for a moment or two and then for a lot longer. Why, oh why, was there no Y-front to my pants? Ours not to reason why … and it all happened. Clean pants and all.
So, I turned on the light and checked myself out. Socks upside down? I took them off. Clean pants on back to front and twisted and now slightly more than damp? I took my jeans off and my pants with them. Shirt on inside out? Off with it and anyway, it was wetter than it should be and I knew I hadn’t bean sweating that much. I looked at the clothes in their little pile on the floor and I kicked them as hard as I could. Of course, I stumbled and only saved myself from being part of the bathroom accident statistics by lurching for and grabbing the towel rail which came away in my hands, towel and all. Luckily, I kept my balance and I didn’t fall.
I got into the shower, washed myself down, got out again, toweled myself dry and climbed back into bed. I stuck the flash light into Teddy’s ear and then I took it out again and hurled Teddy at the still-flashing telephone. Bull’s Eye … or should that be Bear’s Eye? Anyway, the darn thing stopped flashing and I was able to go back to sleep for about an hour.
When I woke up the second time, I dressed very carefully. Socks with the heel in the right place, check! Y-fronts with the Y where I need it, check! Shirt the right side out, check! Go downstairs and erase the overnight message, check! Light stopped flashing, check!
I limped to the IMac and turned it on. Then I opened my documents … I open my documents … I ope … but the error message keeps flashing across the screen. I can’t open my documents because I need a new app. This app is no longer functional on the new system the IT men installed just yesterday. I abandon the IMac and go to the PC. I open the documents with no problem at all. I start to work on a poem and ERROR … ERROR … ERROR … Norton needs to be uninstalled and re-installed . URGENT … ERROR … ERROR …
I shut down the PC and walk into the kitchen. The floor is wet and slippery. I think for a moment that, with the willing suspension of disbelief, I am walking on water. But no, sad reality returns: the cat has thrown up.
Juglar / Juggler
(from Land of Rocks and Saints)
1
In the beginning was the word,
and the word was tossed in the air:
a dove over dark water.
It grew as it descended,
turned into tongues of flame,
each of them licking
at the listeners’ hearts,
tearing them apart.
Sleight of hand:
this deck of words, tossed skywards;
jacks and queens tumbling,
caught, tossed up again;
words, nothing but words,
this pack of wolves descending.
2
Lips part as words draw blood;
red wound of the open mouth,
a rose in spring’s garden
bears us down with crimson scents.
The spirit is trapped in its cage,
flesh and bone binding those wings
with their urgent urge to be free and fly ….
“… you would have seen …” he says.
And so we see: the sea, white horses cresting,
St. James riding over the mountains,
bone on lance point, spear bloodied,
Moorish chain mail bursting asunder,
El Cid advancing on his foes.
Words join with words,
become joint with gesture;
they plunge into our chests,
grow tight round heart and lungs.
Juglar: In Spain, the mediaeval juglar was musician, singer of songs, juggler, and general entertainer. The oral tradition still thrives in Avila and in places where the rhythmic and musical emphasis of the spoken word is still important.
Never before have I had a compliment like this paid to me. To my friends in the URC … so many thanks.
Nunca en mi vida me han dado un tribute parecido … a todos mis amigos en la URC … gracias y un gran abrazo.
Talking with my mother in an empty house
4
the room is alive with light
a halo of sunny sainthood
gilding old furniture
rich gold sunlight
sparkling with dancing dust
enhances silk flowers
polished scarlet tongues of fire
call for your presence
yet you are absent now
I am the one who dusts them
and adds to their gloss
do they still throb vibrant
in the early morning light?
indeed they do
dust rises from your poinsettias
and dust angels dance in the sun
how many to each leaf?
I bend my head to look
and sense dry leaves brushing
rough lips against my face
Time on my hands: so precious these moments
alone, with the sun filtering through the kitchen
and the autumn leaves storing up sunlight
like an old precious wine before they fall.
I sip slowly at this bottle filled with life,
knowing that my friends are there, knowing
I can call them on the phone or knock
on their doors to be greeted with warmth,
an arm round the shoulder, the offer of a meal …
but really, I prefer this solitude, my adventures
with the cat, my slow stroll, not through the autumn
woods, but through the leaves of this book.
This poem is dedicated to my good friend Judy Wearing who challenged me to write a positive poem about my experiences alone in the house looking after the cat. I would like to thank Judy for thinking of me at this time and encouraging me to be positive!
rogermoorepoet 