Springtime’s weather
ruffles the hair,
wind catches the eye,
a leaf brushes past
entangled on the mouth,
little sorrows I dream of,
not big huge ones, the little
sorrows, small, beautiful,
and the rasping hurt of the
sun wishes away sorrows,
little ones,
big ones, causing hurt in springtime’s blue ashes.
spring sunrise
on the maternity ward
a drizzle of lambs
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early dawn
listening to the wind
tap on the window
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You always know what to say
To bring me home to you;
The quiet of the dawn
Finds me watching you sleep,
Studying you
Measuring your breath
Isolating your dreams
Hoping to find our pure love.
On the veranda,
Morning coffee
Neither saying much
Just a look now and again
That spells love.
I saw her sitting with friends
through the glass of the bus stop.
I crossed the road and entered,
she was weeping.
“Aw, sweetheart, what’s the matter?”
She looked up at me
and shook her head gently,
casting jewels knee-wards.
“You always see me like this,
I bet you’ve never seen me smiling?”
She was wrong, so wrong.
I bent down and kissed her
on her head, reminded her
that she had my number
if she ever needed me
and exited the bus stop.
“Why have you got his number,
he’s one of those punks from town?”
I heard one of her friends ask
as I walked away.
“I know, but he’s the nicest man
I’ve ever met!”
she answered.
I kept on walking,
glancing at the window
of a parked car as I went.
Saw the reflection
of my left cheek
and a bit of forehead only.
The shadows hid my crimson eyes
for these blue times.
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In a neatly ordered way,
Things here lie so perfectly clubbed
That disorder and chaos are impossible
To be even thought of, only if otherwise,
Order has to hurt us into discomfiture hard.
Grab any day and it is not enough.
We are unbearably alert,
afraid that there is nothing else out there,
yet hopeful as skies darken
and earth calms down enough
for us to search out what might lie hidden.
There is a slight stammer when we speak,
which we must always own,
carried casually, like spindrift,
into the warp and weft of an early morning horizon,
sluicing through a swarm of stars.
We heard The Big Bang linger
as dust settled into the shape of us,
a bit of buff and sparkle
as we warmed up,
clusters of maverick molecules
becoming question-making machines.
Was it a special sprinkling
which formed itself into longing,
that lonesome pleading with the universe
to whisper possibility along its fault lines,
cracks cackling with mystery at the edges?
This is not hubris. We do not search
for a creature who will scan
the iris of our eyes,
probe the shape of our lips for truth.
We do not need a canary-yellow caged mind
that will latch on to ours.
We need to know only that they are out there,
sweet sentient scraps in an ignorant universe,
almost like ourselves, but with the strut of magic to them,
that we are not incurably alone in the crisp after-cold,
a wayward excess of that first scorching swirl.
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