Breath
June 27, 1999

Without wind I lie on the sand
I am a kite.
Tug as you will upon the strings,
I will flap and flop
And lie on the sand.
Could be trampled, torn,
Disappeared at dawn's new beach.

With wind
I hover
Tug as you will upon the strings
I will float and fly.
Could be god, be born,
No fear of what I seek

Celestial Music?
June 23, 1999

I bet poems could write themselves through you now
if you just sat down and let them flow down to your fingertips
in a cascade of rhythm without reason without rhyme
in time to your heart in time to your smile as you read me now
with the smooth drip of honey pretending pretending to be money
for bees dancing bee-knee jigs for the community
flowing without thinking too much
for your keeping nothing in dust where nothing waits
a wetness to blossom into fruits that may dribble
from the side of my lips to be slowly licked and swallowed
i bet poems could write themselves through you now

Pilchard
June 14, 1999

We can fly and swim like doll-fins, run up mountains backwards
if necessary.
Make like a semolina pilchard and climb up the Eiffel tower.
Even eat oysters with brownbread and butter washed down with
liters of cool golden sweet wine after floating down to the
roof of notre dame just before sunrise

Days are
June 25, 1999

The love that washes over me
bathes, licks with a gentle salty tonguetip
around the scars becoming scabs
that will fall or be scraped off by my socks
(can such love be finished off in the washing machine?)
The love that washes over me licks between the heals
and tickles the soul
It sells sea shells on the see-saw
That love that tickles
Goes for donkey rides over the sand
while I bathe my feet in oh so warm...
is it called sea?
Up and down
calling for a climb down and a sandwich
can I lie down and breathe beneath the wave it washes
over me, I wonder.

Pebblepoem
June 25, 1999

...you are the pebble lying on the beach
I am not far but just out of reach
we don't have arms we don't have legs
crabs sidestep our wish but oysters lay eggs
between us to toy with the idea of food
while we struggle with sand seaweed shell
hailing the cockle a rabbit in sand
while we can not move not having hands
wink at the limits of tides coming in
dependant on things as the moon's
looking round and pregnant she grins

Ifs and Buts
June 26, 1999

There are no mysteries.
There are lives.
Stories.
A lip away.

If I were you and you were me
we would be in the same state

What can change?
I can.
Can I?

But if.....
'if' is a word with wings, a moth looking for light...

But.....
'but' is a word to stub your toes upon.
Hurts.

And
.....is a bridge.....

after a stroll
June 27, 1999

what is
is what
he asked
what
i asked
what he replied

we went for a walk
a stroll

so how are you
fine and you
fine

no finer word

More Pleasure in Loving...
July 3, 1999

I don't know...
Being loved is delicious like eating honey pie together in the bath tub.
Being loved is what babies are born into and grow out of when they start being beings.
Being loved is falling into the void knowing there is a cushion.
Being loved is frightening if taken unawares.
Being loved makes the lover a god.
Being loved is a shell being taken by an ocean.
Being loved is freedom from hope.
Being loved is the warmth I lost, returned.
Being loved is faith.

The Festival
June 4, 1999

How can this scarecrox keep you anylonger
not even his leg scarescrows, rabbitsdrop,
spiders spinaround his toes, layingeggs?

What would a scarecrox say to make you linger
put strawglove hands in baggypockets, shakeafinger at the cloudsthreaten rain
wink and nod, do a dance?

(Harvest soon)
die under harvestmoon
(Harvest soon)

is when we unstuff scarecrox, fold them for the winter

(Harvest soon)
pumpkinsgalore stuffed with candles
scarecroxsuit rots in a cupboardofmoths
straw is feeding fields
crows peck at carrotnose
we all have what we need

(Harvestsoon)