David and Solomon

We are nothing.

Only a short-lived shadow

Upon the Earth

In the twilight of a winter's day.

We are nothing

To him who rules the waters

In the firmament.

And his name will live forever.

We are of substance

When we turn to him above;

In the Heavens

And the sun finally goes down on us.

We, amongst the shadows of Earth

Until the night turns us to him.

Nascent Dream

It is night.
And we have built patterns in local taverns.
Maps of the mind bifurcate as the dawn breaks.
We swim lazily amongst the cars and muted TVs.
I rub the shoulders of friends and giants,
Who pay a visit in my dreams,
And try to write this painful rhyme in a corner,
While children of yet another uncle fight and squabble.

He looks at me struggling,
My birthday is spoilt,
And nobody remembered to telephone for pizza …
"But I purposely got here early on the bus," I say,
Pressing the button three times,
"And the driver got really annoyed!"

Beneath My Acrostic Veil

The dark clouds throng to the sky,
And the heavens clatter endlessly.
The silence of the night is overruled,
And saints taint the air before they die.

Wait for me until the dawn.
Hell holds no place for the righteous ones.
Eat up the badness, which rises out,
Never to ensnare the soul forlorn.

I desired to leave the Earth once more -
Desert this place of pain and wrath.
I took my fill of all these hurts.
Ever to rap upon your door!

Train Journey 17.4.99

Life is a stream.
At its start is the turbulence of youth.
Then come serenity and a pool,
Where I wait to move on.

A rainbow on the horizon,
A junkyard and much more.
Later on a golf course,
…and Bedford Station,
In a modern landscape of wire,
Steel and brick…

Destination Derby – an hour further down the line.

To Beckett

The time will come when everything's fine,
The low rumbling of the wind sounds like voices.
Everything’s ensnared but you’re not here.

Why are we talking?
Why are we smiling?
Only to fuel someone else’s anger …
And point a finger at the absurd.

The Things That Don't Exist

She’s made for me,
She’s set me free,
So now I might be fine.

Watching the clock:
Run about; run all day,
Then in the end things will exist.

She's lost the faith she had,
I'm facing death:
Departed at last; I shall raise my mast.

The Son Above The Hairdressers

He lived on his own till he was thirty-seven,
Above the hairdressers,
And no one tried to interrupt his studies,
Although some of his friends knew about his book,
Or the hit single he had tried to write.
He didn’t get very far, often drank too much,
And intended some day to travel,
Abroad. Maybe Paris or Vienna.
His mother lived nearby whom he would visit,
And she loved him for his tacit efforts,
To please and please himself,
By doing odd jobs in people’s gardens.
Laying patios and cutting down trees,
For next to nothing. What a waste.