Staying in or not coming out.

    JANUARY

    It looks like a cold spring this year,

    So we Sycamores have decided not to risk it.

    I’m sorry – but we must consider our buds.

   

    APRIL

    May is bound to be wetter than usual,

    And our leaves are just not cut out for heavy rain.

    It would be sheer folly to open out now.

   

    JUNE

    My! How lucky the Oaks have been;

    Chancing their arms,, and getting away with it.

    What – spring leaves in summer? We’d be a laughing stock.

   

    SEPTEMBER

    Autumn is such a wasteful season,

    And only a nut would turn out in October!

    In any case, one must wrap up for the winter

   

    NOVEMBER

    The first snows, and a strange numbness.

    The Oaks are murmuring contentedly about leaves,

    But the Sycamores’ feet are killing them.

Harvest

Give to that old husk of time, the seventy year,

No great attention.

But seconds prize, as grains within the ear,

True comprehension.

Soho

In the shops where they sell

Irredeemable grief

And shattered lives

There is blood everywhere –

Running down the porn

And spattered on the walls

Blood for pimps and prostitutes

And the tired sad old men.

They do not see the battle or the blood

Nor the sheltering body

Lashed and slashed for them.

Here  as everywhere,

His death is certain.

It is the price that love demands

Paid in full..

 

When the day dawns,

He will come here

And Skid Row, and Auschwitz,

And Jonestown, and Ruanda

The Abortion clinics, Slave ships  ……

First

 

With his trumpets and singers

Saxophones and midis

Jugglers, acrobats and dancers

All intoxicated with life

Rocking and rolling with joy

Handing out cans of Good News

And God’s-Eternal-Love bubbly.

 

Then

Oh then, they will know.

They will all know.

 

He paid their ransom with his blood.

 

My! O my!

There’s going to be some knee-bowing

And glory-giving

On that day!

Fact

The thing about love is ……

That it very rarely is.

But when it is

It never could have been

And never will be

Otherwise.

So far – no further

Easter?

Easter is too cold.

Right. How about Witsun?

Too early for the grasses.

Sure. The summer then?

Yes, but next summer?

Fine.

Perhaps the following summer?

Suits me.

Or maybe ……?

 

With every procrastinating option

I test you

And –

I hear your relief increase.

 

One by one the wells are stopped

And the candles gutter.

Tantalus

Twelve seconds to take me

Twelve years to hold me

Twelve boxes to break me

What am I?

 

Answer: After the last page

1992

Now God has left,

And we but shadows of our former selves,

Of real dignity and meaning all bereft

Heroic fantasies infest our library shelves.

The first time

I looked out of the window

It was a perfect harvest-time

Of an autumn day

I saw yellow, gold and orange leaves

Against a luminous blue sky

Thirteen  species of bird

Sung in a gentle, sussurating breeze.

 

For the very first time

I dared see no more.

Peace

Human and humus have the same root.

What one is, the other becomes..

Since all is matter, nothing matters

Explanations  are tediums