The Sun and Moon

Up with the sun,
down with the moon.
He can’t stand it.
That’s what they say.
The cycle.
The same cycle.
Every day.
Up with the sun
and down with the moon.


Plans for Escape

They executed Plan B
long ago.
Sailed away
from splendid isolation.
Before it became
a prison from which
there was no escape.
A few chose to play,
like the orchestra
on the Titanic,
with waves lapping
about their feet.
Suicide was the name
of the game.
Commercial suicide.
A route to nowhere.
An impossible strategy.
No plan to speak of.
No one at the wheel.


Rambling Impressions

of Regents Park

Grass, a black butterfly,
Gel Oberon.
‘We were here with Noah
and Effie and Ophelia.
Just right here.’
The musician playing,
country blues, invisible
in amongst the undergrowth.
Birds singing loudly,
in counterpoint.
A sleepy sweet
dreaming atmosphere.
The steady swish
of the road – the pull
of the city’s undertow.
The sound of the singer
drifting away on the breeze.
A light grey greyhound,
with a luxuriant coat,
scoots sleekly past.
A white vapour trail,
shooting to the sky.
Now he’s talking about
the midnight rambler.
I sit up and spot him
sitting beneath a tree.
A reincarnation
of Gerry Rafferty.
Fair skinned and bearded,
a little Stealers Wheel.
A seabird crying
high above the trees,
lost inland.
The music stops.
The ghost has gone.
Time to go and greet
The crazies of Camden
and Kentish Town.


When Will I Be Home ?

By Li Shang-Yin

When will I be Home? I don’t know.
In the mountains, in the rainy night,
The Autumn lake is flooded.
Someday we will be back together again.
We will sit in the candlelight by the West window.
And I will tell you how I remembered you
Tonight on the stormy mountain.

 


Slow Ticking

A feeling of.
A pace of scorn.
A light consideration.
A life undone.
A journey to.
A waste of time.
A mild remembering.
A forgotten past.
A lost signature.
A form gone.
A form disappeared.
A second repetition.
A third time.
A life beneath.
A microscope without.
A molecule of hope.
A call hanging.
A afternoon undone.
A scream beneath.
A veneer of hope.
A great nothingness.
A absence of anything.
A slow ticking clock.


Not Quite Day

The light pours
into another dimension.
Feeding frequently
on those lost songs,
we remember with
such resonance.
Firecracker ignites,
then dissipates.
Sirens, there are always
sirens in the night.
Pulsating through emptiness.
Ever woke-up
from a soundless sleep.
Ever wondered why
it’s always too early.
Dark outside and
not quite day.
That moment when
dreams are real,
and the rest.
The rest is what
we make-up as
we go along.
Haphazard connections.
Temporary states –
like wakefulness and
the beckoning of
an unmade bed.


How are You ?

How you appear.
How you are.
How are things?
How the devil.
How in hell.
How mistaken.
How to disappear.
How to remain.
How to be.
How to know.
How are you?