BLADE OF GRASS

Here down my street 
Comes the
Boom boom personified
Soundscape radio beat blast
World of powerful loud immediacy
Occupies next door’s garden
Triumphant festive noise
Somehow moves the boundary
Several paces to the left
There will be few
For whom this is an imposition
Until the bombs fall

Fewer still are those 
Who long to sit alone 
Absorb a single piano note
Dropped into silence
Value the chance
To contemplate a unique
Blade of grass
In their own back yard
And tend it like gold
As the seasons flicker
Projecting their
Colour and light

Such acts of quiet love
Oppose all forms of empire

ELUSIVE

Peace falls like a leaf 
On a drifting stream 
The continuo drone of bees 
Underpins the pigeons murmuring 
In a tempo they only understand
Unfinished intermittent cycles 
Without end or beginning 
While the chaffinch sings

And the clock slows
The metronome falls out of time
No longer controls
The heart-rate’s agenda 
Stubborn joints unfurl
Warring voices meet and merge
And quieten together
In sudden self-knowledge
Before such grace

The anger that barks at the gates
Is beyond earshot
The heaviness of grievance 
Dispersed, like ashes
Irrelevant on the wind 
All things seem possible
As we listen to life breathing

If the moment 
Could only be preserved 
Boxed in a treasure chest
Transported 
To the future places of failure 
We will no doubt inhabit
Opened, and released
To be relived 

Or multiplied to infinity
Conserved and wrapped 
Dropped by carrier pigeon
On conflict zones
Throughout the world
Putting a halt to madness

But embalmed
It would grow rigid
Shelved in a casket 
Gathering dust
In someone else’s
Thought museum 

The calm must pass
We must return to disappointing noise
The contradictions and addictions 
That tear the heart
Soundbites telling us 
To what extent our earth is sick
Through our own making
And how some lives are just
Unbearable beyond belief

But peace fell
The truth of that one moment
Absorbed under the skin 
Becomes a subterranean stream
That irrigates the soul’s resistance
Across the desert 
Until the next oasis 

BREAD-LINES

Grain re-sown from 
Shell-scarred fields
Processed in familiar form 

Unending rows of
White Sliced 
Stretching in uniformity
On long trestle tables
Then neatly cut
Into dry flat squares
Which rasp the tongue
Thirsting for life

Some might want
Something 'classier' 
More consistent
To dwell on
As they turn it round
In their mouths 
Wholewheat granary
Baguette, ciabatta, pita

The moonlike wafer
Discreet western nod
To unleavened bread
(Deemed at once
Too literal 
and too exotic)
Is most practical
In terms of crumbs

But there should be crumbs
Under the table
And on it, fragments
Of this basic
Everyday food
Which, shared, becomes 
More than enough 
To feed the world’s 
Crying need and
Restore its damaged soul

And fine wine should be poured
In the place where survival 
And celebration meet

Jacob Epstein, “Majestas”, Llandraff Cathedral, Cardiff

FATHERS AND SONS

We talk 
Of failed fatherhood
Authority abuse 
Indissociable for some
From the benevolent but stern
Michaelangelo grandpa
On the ceiling 
Of our minds
As we mutter
‘Our Father’

We don’t talk 
Of the 33 year old male 
Perched high 
On the confidence of youth 
Scanning the room
For how best to work it 
While dreaming of kingdoms
That overturn the system
By use of 3 chords 
And a pedal board
Seduction and charm

His eyes roam 
Past shades of grey 
Avoid
That menopausal woman 
While dropping a smile
At her feet
She might, Heaven forbid
Pull on his sweatshirt  
And request something
Horribly awkward 
Or even just
Conversation

And we sing, Lord, Lord

Forgive me
When I choose 
Father over Son
Snort at sentiment
Keep my distance

Until I wind up raging
In a quiet room
With the one who sees 
And who knows 
Not to come too close
 
But sits
Till I’m done and can
Open my eyes
Recognise
And reach for the hem
Of the 33 year old
Ancient of Days

TRANSPARENT

Over the years
Our bright acrylic traits 
Slide, dissolve
Pale into watercolour
Undefined edges
Fine lines
Soft colours
That fail 
To arrest

Walked past
In crowded rooms
Looked through
At parties
And in church

Should I 
Shave my scalp?
Daub it in woad?
Carry a rose
Between my teeth?
Tear my shirt 
To show a rebel heart
Still shouts 
Beneath the brittle skin?

Or is there an upside
To this gradual becoming 
Transparent?

As the grain of the paper 
Blue-veined 
That carries us 
Starts to show through

Freed
From the need
To airbrush perfection 
Layer the gloss
On the uneven
Rough weave of 
Fibre and splinters
A life lived holds

As our fading 
Draws a bridge
To an open space
Beyond immediacy