The Wishing Well
It was, I recall, my mother who pointed it out,
pressing a coin into my hand and gesturing
towards what seemed to me to be but
a stunted domed chapel with lichen topped roof
with attendant crowd of innocents gazing on.
“Make a wish”, she whispered.
There was no explanation of this reverent plea,
no priest or litany of mystic musing how
or why my hopes or dreams were bought
with strange sacrifice of copper coin
to propitiate the chance of future fate.
“Toss the coin in and wish”, she whispered.
Confused then, by shallow reasoning of loss,
and losing sight of what was earnestly believed,
as in the well, a shiny penny from heaven gleams,
my doubt asked: why drown the currency of hope
in the uncertain waters of the crucible of dreams.
“Keep the coin for a rainy day”, she whispered.
The man with many answers
sits in judgment
on the question now at hand.
“How many angels can dance
on the head of a pin?”
but smiling knowingly
and shaking his fist in prayer
The Man in the Moon
What wisdom bring you now, old friend
from ageless aeons of long watching
what on earth we, who push and pull
the fabric of the land are doing,
in the autumn of our golden age?
What insight and what foresight
waxes lyrical through evening light
while waning waves the day farewell?
What moonlight so unveils the smirking
faux pas face of human doing, not human being?
And what erosion of the endless tides of time
do your tears now join to ebb and flow and stem
the very birthing waters of our living?
Flooded now by greed and endless Gordian strife
in the liminal pursuit of mindless omnicide.
And so my friend, of years and years gone by,
we still insist on recognising visions of your face
in distant depths of tranquil sea, while grinning
through the blindfolds of our God given conceit,
to gently drown the still small voice of calm.
The Man in the Moon will be published in DREICH magazine in the Autumn of 2021
Looking for WMD
When the melody of memory fills the air,
When the music riffs the lover’s hearts catch fire,
When the poet of the soul steps out,
When the violins crescendo with desire,
When the miracles anticipate and sigh,
When the intro’s gentle work is done,
When the cadence then resolves to cry.
My breath is still,
paused to thrill,
When Smokey sings.
Accepting my role within WMD
came more as awe than shock.
For deep is the culture of WMD
and little is done just ad hoc.
So hiding the presence of WMD
is rarely a good thing to do,
and taking my place within WMD
is essential, and far from taboo.
You see, the radical nature of WMD
is something that playfulness brings,
and I’m happy as Larry with WMD
as the rightful order of things.
And neighbours, now marvelling at WMD
seem almost completely agog
at the ordered procession of WMD
in the order of Woman, Man, Dog.
Looking for WMD was published in DREICH Magazine "Things to do with love" - Dreich Themes 2021.
Three Senryu for Dreich Feb 2021
Wait now for the rain.
But still expect a rainbow.
The glass is half full.
Echo chambers clang.
With hollow understanding.
Thank God I am right.
Your love of road rage.
While on the road to nowhere.
Leaves me wondering.