Modern

With the familiar
We are familiar
Yet close up
One eye is green
One eye is brown

& the vertical lines
Are masculine
& the horizontal lines
Are feminine

Within three rooms
To see Mondrian
& Gabo
& Spencer

As daylight falls
Through the window
Blinded
With a fine mesh gauze

Some works
Are never realised
With others
We are never
Familiar, so it seems

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Third Morning

It is the grey mist that wraps itself
Around our borrowed houses

It is the cold air that enters through
Our closed and open windows

It is the time that will bring back
The blue sky and the sunlight

It is all of these and more
Perhaps

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KL 1490

It is the simplicity, there to make one more attractive
In this case a cloth belt, wrapped twice around the waistline
Just sufficient, to create the outline of the female form
Adding to the beauty of this world everlasting

The flight represents the spread of nations, humanity
On the move. We question the goodness of people
I am inclined to think more good, maybe many more
Kate is inclined to think less good, maybe many more less

Beside me the passenger reads
Chapter XIII of William and the Ancient...
We do not share conversation. I write these few words
To remind me of a Saturday morning, the first in April

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Overdone

I didn’t go to meditation
I didn’t go on a spiritual retreat
I didn’t have a soothing massage
Nor have reflexology for my feet

Mostly I did nothing, nothing
Neither in nor out of doors
I didn’t go big city shopping
Nor set-to, on washing the floors

First plans fell by the wayside
Taking the wind out of our sails
Snowfall and the fearful frost fright
Forced the horse-racing off the rails

We did drive out into the country
For a pale ale and pub pie lunch
We walked through the graveyard
To hear our footfalls crisply crunch

I didn’t offer up much excitement
My conversations so slow to start
I hope I didn’t mean to mislead you
Your place is firmly in my heart

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Escapology

I have no more desire
My desire’s run through
I have no one else to tell
My colour’s turned blue

The unsteadiness of breeze
Rocks me as the aspen leaf
Thoughts of a ne’er-do-well
My riptide spurns its grief

I have the telegraph time
My rhyme’s still to choose
I haven’t a defining spell
My delectations are loose

The dull-grey cloudy sky
Folds away as the thief
Tomorrow I’ll maybe dwell
My hope is thus so brief

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