Lotus

Born of murk and mire,
of sludge and slime,
the wheels of time
in brutal rhyme
might then be twisted gyre
all twirly whirly
grimy echoes
all sitting in crippling crud
and crawling under misery
and into ourselves too often.
Now...
find the jewel
let it rise above
unfold into a
prime morrow
into the blooms wide
ascension
into victory
and wild truth
as though sewing
leaflets
as though opening pages
of swelling promise
rise to her....

The Unfurling

Unfurling
rouge red
all arched hems
and pressing up
to a shines
call.
As though
the light does
quiver
in and out
of that full
flush
into springs
misty eyed
rise
Unfurled now
Alive!

Eternity

Look up in Alsace,
there's a stork on the roof
with a little bit of venice
round the town.
He's first in
with a smock of plumes
and feather duster wings
all busy and bona fide true.
They always return
you know
for eternity ...
to the resting place
to the village
all stricken
with the war
with the worst
and the weakest will.
Did you want me to chase you?
To battle
to run forwards into nothing
to claw at skinny spaces...
like they did.
I will not!
But look up...
look up to the storks
love
I'll be there
In the concord
the airie
the home.

Magnificent Magnolia

Wisest
welcome's spring,
in her upturned blushing petticoats
and sassafras smile.
One hundred million years of
knowing sacred
history.
In every bloom
receptacles alert-
antennae ears and eyes
to them and us and all
resume the cycle.
She is peace in doves wings
all tinged with brooding bloody gore
and port wine,
but still...
marvellous
"Marvellous Magnolia"
but still ...
power over cold war,
back in the flame
of spring,
with the woods in echo
and even the mossy cemeteries
and old ruins
all charming
will have her
for a breakfast feast
all dressed in cups
of fragrant tepals,
that Belle of the ball
who never stopped
dancing.

The Snowman

Grandfather gave him a ball
It wasn't for tennis
It wasn't for little hats
with spinning wheels on top.
It wasn't a calamity.
It wasn't for Jane.
and it wasn't plain.
Grandfather gave him a ball...
covered in prints
covered in warm dints
rolled in history and stories.
It wasn't for anyone else.
It wasn't for the boy he met
in Boyle's Blue trousers
with bitter lemon hair
and a honeyed smile
used for tricks
and wreckages...
like he owned the girl
with a pearl earring.
By god-
he did not!
Grandfather asked him
to make something.
It wasn't to be moulded
and handled
and bent out of place
by anyone else.
It was his
for ideas
for freedom.
He didn't make a box
or a pot.
He didn't make cups for tea
or a plate for three.
He divided the clay
into two equal parts.
He made a snowman
even though it was warm indoors
on that day.
He made a snowman.
He made it himself
in December,
on the other side of the world...
and it was turning ice into clay,
a warm, soft, gentle day-
a piece of the earth.
But the boy he met
took the ball
from grandfather.
He put it in a plastic box
and sometimes he let you take it out.
But it wasn't really yours anymore,
not really.
But you got gold pieces
all dressed in
Boyle's blue trousers.
But they weren't yours
and neither was
grandfather
anymore.

Beanings

Bell of the beanstalk
Little pulses
In sleeping sacks
with seemly seems
that make sweet refuge.
Green gram me a message
little runner
and upwards to climb
in your sunny vista.
There's a blue lake
With bountiful butter
for breakfast
with strings
playing nevertheless
and always the more
to grow here.
Beanings, why do you grow
in groups?
Lay in close quarters
when the sun's on just one stalk?
Take a trip
even if in tangled
windings you must go...
rambling
curling
clinging on -
hold tight!
Take a green gram for me
with the scarlet runner
to the sun....
with your podcast
of fresh heart.

Shining

Slinky waves
over white walls
like sound
like those disturbances
conducting life's
fervor in fluttered
heartbeats
and light alive
and dancing...
the quicksteppin'
tumblin'
of rumblin'
requisites.
Look up...
there you are
in the glint
in the wild flash
of lovely.
I saw you there
like that rebounding fun
like the radio waves'
long distance runner
Like you
Like only you
could do it...
Like nature's
virtual interface
as a deep ocean
might cast back
something of
true beauty.

Camellia

With cotton flowers
and fresias alight,
I wished for you to join us
in mulled wine
and steeping stories -
rich tales and chatterbox
grains of paradise time
in knowing friendship so long.

I wished for you to come home
to plant the tree I bought...
from a shop at the base of those emerald hills,
with wandering deer nigh and their lovely wild eyes looking upwards.

That tree
that lady of the camellia
she remembers
always,
she knows about great flight
and she's no wooden mob
no muffled wet leaves
or crowded mass of tangled life,
no thick silent arms,
no tightening branches around necks.

I wished for you to feel
her tea flower
life's sweet seasoning
yet blazing fierce luminous light
that of woman
of me
of every concentric wedding band
married to rights
overlying the overlapping
struggle
to find
perfect symmetry
in peace
in parity.

The Potter

Rise from the ash,
dust away days
of ill lit mucky
muddles.
Ware me some
earthen dreams
of yours,
in the jiggering
in the jollying
in the turning
of warm nestling
clay...
nuzzling hands, snug - tight...
and rising
and coiled together
in wanting,
to whirl and whirl
like the dancing
twilight fireflies
all fired up,
and shining
glaze in a new coat
We'll find your coat again.
We can find your coat again...
the right one, the bright one.
With a light in the pocket
even as late as midnight.
It's never too late for love.