Published in Picaroon Poetry……

The good people at Picaroon Poetry have graciously published my poem ‘From the Gutter to the Stars” in their September 2017 publication.

Please do click on the link and have a read. My poem is at page 32.

The Rut in the Groove

In transit,
head-at-heel from long, folding days,
a journey, quiet in its bequest and
lingering just below the liminal point,
i watch you from afar,
the window, translucent from showers and
the smaller, reverse reflecting pool,
allows an unlimited panorama of

a muddy visual of constant commentary,
two steps behind, hand above shoulder,
deft on the arches,
the half-step, the half-reach,
the familial hagiography ,
the rut in the groove, the brush of the lint,
the eternal skip of
nil by mouth and all by ear until

two heads, chatting at once,
a divided soul of babbling blues,
double sided and exhausted by
marked positions,
ties tired names to tired places,
ties strings to wood and locks
to ivory keys,
ties acoustic sounds to acoustic faces

and in transit,
the circle line, the motherland,
catching snippets of another world
where alternate me resides in stringed
ecstacy, unhurried,
thoughts that hammer and clamber inside,
curling cat-like on the strings and
bouncing gently to safety.

The Hum

I watched you,
your flaccid mattress
funnelling the breeze

you stretched, and leapt and wept internally
while I ordered, deposited
and rounded that fleeting street

squinting: business men have business fights
and ministerial fist in glove, shakes
‘reform lemar’

your hand outstretches the barrier,
reaching for the hum, the buzz,

pools of sunlight illuminate,
fascinate, dance on the skin
most high

we drop our eyes and vacation backwards,
through sands of transaction,
you reprove and I feel nothing.

From the Gutter to the Stars

We lie in three, behind the baby bunk
and away with the light,
for gentle song offloaded in tin themes
drafted upwards to the top-beam
by project whale, project octopus,
half-hand, half raised, points

to her wonderous awe at the painted shapes,
and challenging with syllogism, the stereoscopes,
but your magic is mine, is
one vista north, one west,
gently clenching the underearth and
eloping from the damp cheek

As we pass the desiccated woods,
three half-moons anoint us,
the jaws of open space devour
where the sun skillets the sky,
and Christ’s birthday draws
my placid self inward

My returning, vulturous self
licks clean the bones
and gently repositions the mirror,
together we can reminisce,
a rearview squint at a dull
and distant and rusted past

Instead, I place you there,
a smaller me of wide eyes
and arms raised.
I pick you up.
I squeeze you tight.
I kiss your eyes.