February

Not all months are dull

February's short as well

Snowdrops hang their heads

Buffalo Girls

All the folks who had died on a Sunday

gathered in one room behind an old wooden door

The rest of us waited

some of us for seasons

others because they weren’t ill or old.

Standing beside the grandfather clock
a boyman (17) announced to the gathering

“as of tomorrow I went for a walk”

The midnight proxy cuckooed twelve times

and next Sunday started with an almighty bang.

In the wee hours he started walking

and we all sang loudly

from the bottom of our hearts

“Happy deathday to you, happy deathday to you ...”


All the folks that will die on a Monday
were gathered in one room behind a moonlit door

The rest of us waited
some of us for seasons
others because they weren't ill or old
 
Standing outside The Grandfather Clock 
a barman (18) announced to the crowd
"as of yesterday the drinks will be free"

The midnight proxy cuckooed twelve times

and next Monday started with an almighty crash. 
In the wee hours he started serving

and we all sang loudly

from the bottom of our hearts

“... hang my hat on the horns of the moon
the sun is over-rated ..."

Geometry at early a.m.

Atop an old mountain in the Kingdom of Sundrey

cold rinsed by the electric black crystal with moon,

a smooth pearl in oystered night clouds

sun’s lotion smeared over half its cratered body.

Not a breath

but the wind can wait.

So blow your angles

set sail the clouds

reveal the geometry, the king of tides.

And as for all the battles fought in the hills of the sky,

betwixt the starry nerves of the heavens

the moon remains still,

an origami eye above and beyond coastal cliffs

driving the universal oceans of our blood.

Small Waves

Finish reading
a good book

carefully handle it

turn it over

examine it

back to front

underneath

inside out

as if it was

a lover’s foot

a newborn

a ripple of sparks

photocopied by

sun and moon

on journeys

through memory
to mind

beyond beauty
ugliness, loss

beyond seeing.