Star Struck
Last night, when least expected,
out of nowhere, a new star
and beyond it, the Red Planet.
Light fragments, disintegrates.
I grasp at snow flakes
as they stumble, falling stars
sliding down the sky.
I stretch out my hand
to grasp the magic of the moment,
but I cannot comprehend the mystery.
I shiver – knowing I must leave
the warmth of my bed,
my comfort zone,
to walk alone in cold and dark.
Gilt Trip
A walking gilt trip
and the woes of the journey
packed into the old kit bag
that bends your back
and weighs down your shoulders.
Take care lest you stumble,
for if you stumble
you will surely fall, and every fall
is a precipice that will never allow you
to get back up again.
Where is the stranger, the faceless one,
the as-yet-unknown one who will care
just because he cares and will help you
stand up once more on your own two feet?
Take root where you stand.
Plant your feet solidly into the ground.
The winds of change will blow,
but they will not topple you.
Raise your eyes to the sunrise.
Strive upwards, ever upwards,
turn towards the light,
that fragile lightness
of everlasting light.
Reflections
What do we really see
when we look in the mirror?
Do we see our real selves
or do we see the sad distortions
of our diminishment?
The Fairground on the Recreation Field
in Swansea used to have a hall of mirrors.
You handed over your three-penny bit,
not the silver one your granny gave you
so you would have good luck always,
then you walk up the wooden stair,
and there you are, staring at yourself.
Fatter, thinner, shorter, taller,
a half-and-half version,
thinner at the top
and so much fatter at the bottom,
like those old Christmas figures
you could flick, but never roll over.
Giggle city: and hysterics ruled.
Or did they?
So sad to think that, back then,
I saw myself as I am now:
forehead larger, fatter one end,
thinner at the other
with shriveled shanks,
wasted muscles.
And the Fairground brain scan?
Well, it didn’t exist. Thank God.
What is there now within my skull?
Just a crackle of old, dead leaves,
a rat-filled attic of dried memories,
a sand-bag of half-forgotten thoughts.
I remember sitting there,
at the Slip on Swansea Sands,
with the summer ending,
thinking about going back to school,
watching the tide creep slowly in,
wondering what life was all about.
Hope
In the half-light, on my evening walk,
the first pale-green spears of spring
stuck out their tongues
from the lips of leaf mold
and dark earth to mock me.
“Back home,” they said, “the daffodils
are in full bloom. In Ireland
the shamrock refuses to surrender.
It will not be trampled underfoot.”
“But this is my home,” I replied.
“Believe: and spring will come,”
the earth cried out.
“La paciencia todo lo alcanza –
patience achieves everything.”
The darkness deepened. Night came on.
But the sun still shone within my heart,
and filled me with hope.
Click here for Roger’s reading on Anchor.
Hope.
Outreach
It’s so easy to cast the tiniest
pebble into the tranquil pond.
Sit and watch the ripples spreading,
flowing outwards, touching unknown
shores with a smidgen of warmth,
a lapping of love.
Reaching out, from the center
to the periphery, not knowing
where the outreach is going,
but knowing that the effort is
never in vain if it helps someone’s
suffering, reduces their loneliness,
brings light to their lives,
and relieves their pain.
Bread cast upon the waters,
returned in great store,
three, five, seven, ten times
more than what you cast.
Your spider-web lines
thrown inwards and outwards
in a gesture of faith, hope,
and a charity chest of tenderness
to lighten a burden, to remove
the dark from another’s heart.
It’s so easy to select a pebble,
but who will throw that first stone?
Twisted
Sometimes we twist ourselves into knots.
We double-think our thoughts,
put our feet in the wrong hole in our jeans,
slide our socks on backwards,
put our shirts on inside -out.
Poor twisted mortals,
we have made up our minds that all is well,
that everything is for the best
in the best of all worlds,
but we are not candid with each other
and sometimes we are so twisted
we cannot see the truth
even when it is staring at us from the mirror.
Alas, my front tooth is chipped.
My hairline is receding.
My whiskers are turning as grey
as my thinning hair
that has already lost its curl
and now falls straight forward
in the Julius Caesar cut
that belies the closeness
of the Ides of March.
Sun Storm
Some days the clouds roll in.
Your world turns from gray
into fifty shades of black.
These are the days when the sun
seems as lost as you.
But the sun isn’t lost.
It hides behind clouds, maybe,
but it’s there.
That’s where the sun storm comes in.
Clouds have silver linings
and the sun, once seen, will never,
ever be forgotten.
Hold its image in your mind.
Breathe in the sunshine.
Let it flood through your body
and shine out through your heart.
Now, you will never be alone,
and the sun will walk with you,
all your days, and be remembered
even in the darkest night
when paths disappear
and all seems lost.
Click here for Roger’s reading.
Sun Storm
Mood Music
Mood music caught between brush
and paper then trapped in notes
that sing in acrylic colors.
Colored music and music
expressed in colors that dance
on the page and light up
my face and the room
with joy and light.
What figurines dance here,
before your eyes, partners,
each one different for each of us,
moving in a musical mood
that captures a moment of magic,
brush magic,
with silent colors flowing
but all too ready
to burst into song.
Doors
Revised version
Paintings:
doors you can walk through,
windows that open onto visions
of another, more beautiful life.
Deeper than the paint, the thoughts
and words that formed them,
brushed them into life,
an ephemeral life, so brief
that butterflies seem to last longer
and flowers live for all eternity.
Transience and insubstantiality.
Change is all around us,
we are surrounded by change.
But the deepest changes,
the ones that affect us most
are internal, set deep within us,
death’s eggs hatching slowly
since the day we were born.
Life is indeed short, and art endures.
Carved five thousand years ago,
in stone, this magnificent henge,
first Wood-henge, then Stonehenge,
majestic at the dawn of time,
with its sarsen stones, pillars, post-holes,
and labyrinths, circling within circles,
a frail spider-web of sunlit brilliance.
Lost now, the message,
as my own message is lost,
covered by paint, though words
emerge in the strangest places,
allowing us to peer in through windows
as long-lost words and worlds
whirl out through carved and painted
windows and everlasting doors.
Doors
First version
Paintings are doors you can walk through,
windows that open onto visions
of another, sometimes better, life.
Deeper than the paint are the thoughts
and words that formed them,
brushed them into life,
an ephemeral life, so brief
that butterflies last longer
and flowers live for all eternity,
or so it seems.
Transience and insubstantiality.
Change is all around us,
we are surrounded by change.
But the deepest changes,
the ones that affect us most
are internal, set deep within us,
death’s eggs hatching slowly
since the day we were born.
Life is indeed short, and art endures.
Carved five thousand years ago,
in stone, this Towie ball
with its labyrinths and circles.
Lost now, the message,
as my own message is lost,
covered by paint, though words
emerge in the strangest places,
allowing us to peer in through windows
as long lost words and worlds
walk out through carved and painted doors.
Spiders
The spider plant
spins out web after web,
all knotted together,
then ejected
from the central nest.
One landed on my floor
the other afternoon
with an enormous clunk.
A huge new set of offspring
and roots ejected and sent
on a voyage of discovery
to find a new home.
Mala madre / bad mother.
Oaxacans have a curious way
of naming their plants.
I lived in an apartment
above a courtyard
filled with malas madres.
A Bird of Paradise
nested in the same tree,
while in the garden
a banana plant, in flower,
a huge hibiscus,
and such a variety
of prize poinsettias
that I could never get
the varieties straight:
red, white, cream, single,
clotted, and double-crowned.
In the powder room,
downstairs, our hibiscus
is about to break
into winter blooms.
Sider mites crawl all over it.
Every day, I hunt them down,
squishing them whenever I can.
My daughter calls me cruel
and a padre malo.
I say ‘no: it’s them
or the hibiscus.
You can’t have both.’
Click on this link for Roger’s reading.
Spiders
rogermoorepoet 