Multiplicity

I don’t make memories anymore

It is a way to forget

That I still have scar tissue

I don’t take sorrows from the store

As if a no to the regret

That I still have a life issue

When the helplessness of hope

Is, or is no longer, within me

Then I must go there within me

When the joyfulness of joy

Becomes alone, or absent within me

I know I must search deeper within me

When the playfulness of play

Has arrived at, or left, that place within me

Then I too must return to be there, within me

I don’t make arguments anymore

It is a way to stay calm

To reinvigorate the tissue

I don’t take, or borrow, from the core

As if a no to an endless psalm

You see I still have a desire for issue

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Distinctly Different

Off you go

Here I stay

As of before

As of today

On your own

To browse, to buy

Love of gift

As God walks by

God walks by

Off his impressive boat

His stance is pied

His manner aloof, afloat

The bus, as we are on

Goes this way, then that

A two-stage marathon

In a beach-boy hat

All that we see

Is that the drizzle is fine

All that is free

Is there, beyond the no-entry sign

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Separate Ways

Clouds

Breeze

Broken bracelet

Year

On year

After rebuilding

Nothing is

As

Nothing ever was

No Americano

No cigarette

No shadows of life

Mother

With daughter

With granddaughter

Hand in hand

Arm

In arm

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Attention

It is a super-yacht marina

Harbour Moon is berthed here

The Triasmapi company

Continually ferry to Formentera

How could he not

Have an iced Martini

Or a line of cocaine

Or something surely stronger

Yet there is no sign of a party

Nor of lunch being taken

In fact all is still, except

Another ferry departs

I remember Puerto Buenos

A Russian oligarch, and an 

American, who made Kennedy’s

Wife into Jackie Onassis

They were as if in competition

Pulling in alongside each other

For the spit, for the polish, for the obsessions

To be fastidiously applied

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Olden

In the cathedral

Of the castle

In old Ibiza town

With San Juan Pablo

Or Saint John Peter

To you, to me

A happy looking chap

With a rod, with a wave

Wearing a golden gown

His place built by cheap labour

Slaves most likely

According to my friend

Who I must say is not one

To give good grace to the church

In any circumstances

And after climbing all those steps

Struggling up those steep cobbled inclines

There is little or no chance of forgiveness

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