You are still,almost part of the chair,before a drawn curtainand wondering, “Is there not an act three?”while those around are standing,offering applause,putting on coats,gathering purses,hats,scarves,excitedly chattering aboutwhat a great show it was. Over time, the theatre clearsof friends and neighbours,dear ones,lovers, dreams,but you remain,for what must be an eternity,pondering. Have you notunderstood the joke?or learnedContinue reading “Act Three”
Tag Archives: poems
Me, Pussycat, God
If I were the Pussycatand Hewereme, I wonder exactlyhow thatwouldbe. I might sit,contented,my own simple businessto mind and,suddenly,find my whole self lifted in air,to be cheek by jowland ear pressed to ear. I’d struggle,push, lean,and rathernot be there but I’d have nothing to fear. All powerful,the Pussycat’dhave no reason to be mean, I’d feel lovedandContinue reading “Me, Pussycat, God”
Fred Sits Down
Fred feels thoughtful – says to the waiter,“I’m but a short while here. Your warmth and sun againstmy precious wind and bitterdo battle,deconstructing as they’re able,the space I live within,where I clutch at old things, familiar and dear. You offer me slowed moments,an island vacation,a time to set aside the immediateof past and future busyness,aContinue reading “Fred Sits Down”
A Clockwork
Who sips,when droughtis done and cups are fullagain?Even childbirth lies forgottenatthe scent of summer’slilacdrifting in. Bury both lips deepand soon as you can.Ignore what dribblesdown the chin,it isn’t wasted. Sky, in metered time,revisits trembling blue.What spills from thisand sunlight’s offeringis tastedby earth anew.
An Emperor’s New Clothes
Passion glows,witnessed through back-lit windows.It’s nothing more again than darknessand certain death called progress.Where is what was promised thee? This looking-glass, called ‘Galaxy’,has empty pixels, tamed,unlike the place, for which it’s named,that’s balanced, occupied by everything,mass and time and nothing. Stripped to bare,a changeling preens and we are unaware.At first sight bright, much ballyhooedby shoppingContinue reading “An Emperor’s New Clothes”
Sunday, At Church
It is raining.Tiny brown/grey birds(I believe they are sparrows)huddle under eaves next door.A dirty and thirsty one hop/flies upfor a drink and quick bath atthe metal trough above him/her whilethe rest stare into a slanted downpour,perhaps thinking private thoughts.They are waiting for the rain to stop,possibly chatting with each otherin the way that birds mustContinue reading “Sunday, At Church”
Robert On The Air 