Drone

Beneath the boards

Boards that vibrate

A sense of all but urgency

Into my shoe clad feet

Great fear of falling backwards

Into a non too placid sea

Secured by fine lines of railings

Links that do not set me free

Howl of wind, air resounds

Bound by the old engines

At the clay quarry or factory

Hymns wrung without a beat

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Authentic Voice

A pen & ink sketch would

Have captured her wild frizzy hair

But told nothing of addiction

His voice, recorded

Would have set a place for many

But told nothing of the past

A further outpost

Once again the curse or cure

Of the one alone to tell

To talk of sand, scrub and dune

Smiles from passers by

Mobiles for those most immobile

Speak of children, who argue less

With grandparents, much as writers

Who argue more, when left alone

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Wakes Week

A thousand miles of photographs

Hundreds of leagues beneath the sea

A smile, from a lady in a plastic mac

On her way towards the North End pier

Blue skies, brief blown clouds, stiff breeze

Waves; high with roll, with surf, with crash

Out there where sky meets sea, a latency

A curved line of disbelief, believe me

Forecast; the wrinkles will arrive

Sprinkled with diamonds and pearls

Whirled as a dervish of old times portal

The long clock, the point of it all; social

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Silent Time

Patience, she too wears sandals

Models made and models cast aside

Hidden doors from floor to ceiling

I, there I go again, I

All the blood, in consecrated

Circulation; all of love

The patron saint of care & patience

She too wears oilskin lookalikes

Forbidden clothes, rags for reeling

You, there you go again, you

All the good in pre-perfected

Veneration; all of love

Patience, he too wears sneakers

Members rooms and members only

Hidden codes, the keys of leaving

We, there we go again, we

Misunderstood, in desecrated

Contemplation; all of love

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Edmund

A taste of the world

From the black olive delicatessen

A saucerful of secrets

From the United Reform Church

Across the way a middle aged zealot

A man at least many more ways committed

Than the big issue seller stood by his side

He holds you with his near death monologue

A swan by the lake; rural-in-urban

Water lilies sent by the boy king

Whispers of breeze in the rooftop timbers

Rattled by the complicity of non-believers

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