The Poetry Marathon

I saw him, old and bent
Gnarled
Waiting patiently
Or so I thought
On the park bench.
He explained
When I asked
What he was waiting fot
That he wasn’t waiting at all
He was just
Being, patiently
Not being patient at all
Because being parient
Was doing
And he was just being
Pariently, without hurry
Or the dusruption of thought.
I apologised
For my intrusion
He laughhed
And said
That I didn’t intrude
Nothing could
Because
He was me
And I he
Just like birrdsong
And barking dogs
And the crying child
And the roar
Of the passing bus.
I smiled at his madness
And went on my way
And I learned
To see the oneness
In a sunrise
And now I know
Why he smiled,
That it was me
Who was mad
Not to see
The old man was right
All creation is one
Nature
She is me
And I am she.

Mya, aged five
Took her homework assignment
Very seriously
As we sat together in the kitchen
Eating toast
While she interviewed me
About my job
‘What do you do?’ the question
So do I tell her I used to be
A graphic designer,
But since we moved here
There wasn’t enough work
Or do I tell her i used to ne
An acupuncturist
But the recession meant
That i had to find another avenue
To put bread on the table
That pride can’t be eaten
Just swallowed
And that it tastes bitter
And that they taste bitter
‘I colour in houses’ I said
And it was the most true description
Of what I do
‘That’s the coolest thing in the world she beamed’
And it was, and it is
Because she made it so.

The closet is where monsters lived
I could hear them breathing at night
But during the day it was where
I could escape the real monsters
It was narnia, it was a spaceship
It was the womb, safe and secure
Where the smell of old timber
Old varnish and moth balls
Grew tendrils into my memory
Whispering stories of when
I was Flash Gordon or Nemo
Outer and inner space,
But at night the looming shadow
That fell across the floor
Was where the things lurked
Waiting for me to slip
So they could feast on my exposed feet.
There are skeletons there too
That rattle in the small hours
Of secrets given to the monsters
Of secrets the monsters, the real monsters,
Gave to me
And so I stay half in half out of the closet
Both craving the anonymity of its embrace
And fearing all the things that live there
Things I can never tell another soul
That I told the closet instead.

What is it
Just an ordinary thing
To smile with your eyes
And say hello
With warmth in your voice
You’ll never know as you passed by
That the ordinary thing
Of making a connection
Could save a life
I was on my way
Planning my escape
Maybe a date with the train
Or a rope or a knife
I hadn’t decided
But I knew with certainty
That I didn’t belong
And no one would miss me
After I’m gone
Until you did an ordinary thing
Made extraordinary
At the brink.

What is love
But the subtle violence of feeling
That slips like a shard of glass
Insinuating between my ribs
And into my heart
All I did was think of you
And my body betrayed me
My mind, agent provocateur
Whispers of forgotten touch
And conjures the scent
Of your hair, your skin
The notes of your laugh
The flash of mischief
And quicksilver
Changes of mood in your eyes
But all that manages
Is to stab me over and over
With that glittering blade
Fragile, brittle and lethal
It’s only the memory of a feeling
Yet it cuts in ways
Steel never could.

Under the orange street light
The stain grew
Spreading out
The colour of ripe beet
Creating a map on his jacket
He sank to his knees
Goner, there was no doubt
And his voice came in a tremor
‘Hey Jack, that you?
Don’t you dump me, Spanish Jack,
In any god damned bayou’
He sank slowly first to his knees
Then slumped over on one elbow
He knew he’d paid his debt
The humming light overhead flickered
It was the only eulogy he would get
His skin the colour of cinnomen
Turned grey as he paid his price
He had lived his very last day
Thrown his very last dice
And as the blood stained
The ground around him
I watched his life die hard
‘Bought a bullet, kicked the bucket,
Played his last sharp card’
I shot again just to be sure
Then removed my elk skin gloves
I’d taken Jim far and away
From everyone he ever loved
I left him in his trunk
In his own carport that night
And drove my cadillac from that place
And on into the night.

Funeral singers keen
In charity’s last pact
So your soul won’t
Slip silent into the night
Alone in your last act
The window is left open
Lace curtains twitch
In warm summer’s breeze
To let you fly away from me
And soar into the stars
I let you go now in peace
To be carried onward
Beyond my innermost sight
Away on the vioices
Of funeral singers tonight.

What line can I write
That I might again repeat
Later on tonight

I rack my tired brain
What line can I write
It just won’t come
Do you share my plight

If only words might spill
Bent to my will
I rack my tired brain
The words silent still

I steel my pen
And my faint resolve
If only words might spill
I strain wih all my might
Oh dear gods above
What line can I write?

I took a walk to the edge
Theyd told me wasn’t there
There was a meadow
Wild flowers and long grass
Made the trek at least bareable
Though the sun was strong
And in my eyes so much
I almost walked straight over
Stumbling back my heart raced
From the shock of near death
And the shock of what I saw
Four elephants
Gargantuan beyond measure
Yet dwarfed by the turtle
On which they too rode
A voice came from behind me
‘So now you know’ it said
I turned and realisation dawned
It was probably the fedora
‘Terry’ I smiled
‘Sir Terry’ he said , a twinkle in his eye.

Concrete stares
From hard eyes
Concrete shoes
For betrayals
Concrete set
To thin lips
Concrete resolve
Driving the act
Concrete defiance
Daring it
A single splash
Concrete certainty
Of no more tomorrows
One less animal
In a concrete jungle
Where only
Reinforced concrete
Can take the weight.