Being Bardi

The machines that had
surrounded her bed
were shut off, one
after the other,
no longer needed as
her body, still,
released her at last
into the Dance that
Life brings us to when
music is not enough/

Once upon a time
according to history and legend
there were gods and monsters,
moonglad sunclad dancers of
magic as humanity grew

Sometimes the only things that change
are the ingredients that create
the mysteries we dance in silence
even though we have often left the magic behind
we are become as gods and monsters.

Love can be loud
strong winds
chasing strong wings
that lead from
honking to tight circles
of courtship.

Welcome to the Square and Springtime,
Santa with wheeled luggage boards the Airport shuttle,
his long white beard and the white knob of his hat
doing an improve dance in the wind.
There are people walking in and out of the afternoon shadows
some of them talking to each other
some talking through their buds or bluetooth for mobiles
some of them talking to the small were once and might have beens
that hide from the earth inside collars.

A woman dressed in cotton and age stands and
feeds the pigeons scraps of foreign poetry for this
is the Square and Springtime

Verdant

Each Spring
has its own shade of green.
The Spring
she died did not change that.
Or the rain
or the Sunshine
or anything

but the colourless space left in my heart.
That only hopes there will be a Spring
with her shade of green
where she will not be dead. 

rags

Lovers and dreamers
and other truths and lies.
they come and go without knowing
they are each of them their own book.
Only waiting the feel of the rag content and
the scent of the pages as they turn, the
pages that are full
of lovers and dreamers.

15 April,1945

Regardless of all the myths and legends
and monsters we have created under the bed,
nobody was ready for this.
A world which suddenly smelled of pain and ash and blood.
bodies stacked upon each other as if they were
bad sentences in a story of horror without end.

Death city after death city uncovered
in the Spring of Hell returning home
this time at east. The bodies wrapped around
each other in stillness.
And the skeletons walking slowly, slowly
and finding the one word they had thought impossible.

the possibility of Tomorrow.

Loving Cup

Live as a child is a series of adventures
that we both remember and forget depending
on where life and dreaming leaves us off.
scattered in the tall trees and high blossoms
had been houses, come and gone over the centuries.
on weekends we would shuffle through bracken looking
for the impact of civilisation on the mountains.
One weekend we were cowboys and indians chasing each other
through famous battles when we say a glistening.

Buried in the dark loam was a loving cup. An old design
with lettering only vague by now.
An award won by someone or such decades ago at least.
It was Paddy decided the mountain deserved the trophy.

I had wondered if he ever won a trophy on his own.
Although later I heard he did not return from the Falklands.

Lately I have been thinking of the load and forests and the
cool mountains and the treasure hunts
that led us to find, without knowing it, the treasures of friendship.