From small beginnings

The stream finds
its cascading rhythm,

swirling past branches,
who hold out all the
memories of good timing
in those certain buds of spring.

A flowing staircase,
fresh, over the rocks,
come tumbling
syncopated chords,
and it has played this out,
oh, many times before,
but never in quite
the same way.

How it loves
the collected volumes
of these seasonal rains.

For they are a means
to run faster and further,
and to sail a leaf
to a new found land
(it only dreamt of
once upon a time,
when it was up in its tree)

Ever onward the waters zigzag,
often with the angle of a lute.

Retuning by degrees, it remerges
to be heard once again,
becoming the folk song
it was surely meant to be.

Exceedingly good

On The Sixth Day,
God created land creatures of every kind.
Man and woman were created last.

On The Seventh Day, he rested.

On The Eighth Day, he whipped up some
cakes which were good, but a little
sweet for such young palates.

Some considered the pastries overcooked
too, lacking that subtle, light touch he’d
leant so creatively to Day One.

On The Ninth Day, God created lightning,
thunder, lashing oily rain and the first
episode of Dr Who. The storyline of which
would only be viewed in a distant future.

There was much dissent.

Some openly voiced that he’d taken
the cake criticism far too much to heart.

On The Tenth Day, God with lips pursed
created Spam, tripe and powdered eggs.

We all decided they were indeed,
exceedingly good.

Nothing is what it seems

~ under the bed.
which is to say
under the dense mattress,
where carpet border
meets wire frame springs,
and I can breathe
in a space I reach for
subconsciously;
once able to crawl there.

Tonight slides under
the top-most pillow,
the nearest I’ll get
to tunneling my way
into ice-bound Narnia.
Pushing back linen
like plush wardrobe fur coats.
Except no fauns found here
to welcome by lamplight,
in cold comfort
and weathered seasons,
in grown-up dreams.

It snows in the dark
each breath noticeable,
inhale today, exhale
into tomorrow for warmth
to be returned;
the day after the thaw,
chills will not prevail.

In another space,
I edge past a white witch
which bullies me
into not quite believing
in myself, her icicle aim
to leave me in perpetual winter.
Yet a lantern
is pressed between my palms
by a lion, Aslan.

Eyes with glimmer that he needs
to sustain as fireside coals.

Usually he shows up
one page before
his untamed illustration,
paws still wet with artist’s colour,
his paint trail tail shows the route
to pass safely
the forests beyond cares.

And a waking begins,
only is it noticeable
C S Lewis is here too
under the storyline trees
still typing the scene;
he wants me to continue
towards “Once upon this time”,
close the chapter
on winter land emptiness,
and write of a melt to come.

I’m not too sure about this poem. It’s based upon
the CS Lewis story “The Lion, the Witch & the Wardrobe”,
where a witch prevents winter from ending or spring
from beginning (whichever way you wish to look at it)

* The italic phrases aren’t from the book, they’re just my own
turns of phrases that possibly might be found there
(if that makes sense)

Plump out your community chest

I once found a $ billion bond
in a old shoebox,
admittedly the shoebox in question
was in a Monopoly bank vault.

By sheer ill fortune,
I’d rolled on Mayfair, didn’t
like the choice of hotel room,
complained to the concierge, and
quickly played my “Dicey Heist” card.

They’re now questioning
whether a $ billion
bond was ever made or if it
could fit in a shoebox,
who wears those shoes, and if that’s
in the rules. I assure them it is,
I do, and calculate the change
which I’ll take if I have to in properties.

Now they’re saying that card doesn’t
exist either and want to see the clause.

I play my “Swiss Bank Confidentiality” card.

The audacity of some players.

Readers make the best companions

Drifting above the room
to areas rarely seen,
the top ledge of the bookshelf
displays a dusty parade
of propped novels read
and some unread
leaning aslant into tomorrow.

The lampshades from here
are tempting orbs
shining upwards,
directing me
in their searchlight nudges,
with adamant requests
to get out a duster and flick
away highlighted cobwebs.

I desist (knowing what I know)

For there’s that old spider reading
“The Time Traveler’s Wife” again,
and I notice its fine silken thread
traversing one room corner
right to the open book.

If only I made the same efforts
to read as it did. So, I assist
turning the page for it (carefully)
and between us we get to page two.

In genuine thanks
it untangles its trap,
and offers me begrudgingly
another free-fly
so I can become accustomed
to these fragile, moth wings.

Here’s hoping it’s a lengthy book
with a happy ending.

Peking mystery

*
Stealing a Freudian duck
can provoke after dinner debates,
peeking Peking mysteries
to resolve over Sigmund cigars.

Nobody is ever quite sure
with complete certainty
who indeed was the foul deed
or why there’s an orange segment
missing at dessert, again,
and is that fruit significant?

All their conjecture is stated
in crisply, heated conversation
about rich origins of sauces,
and how that affects
the personality of the duck.

When it was most alive,
and contently, consistently
blissfully unaware
of the waddle in its walk
before the cooked-up analysing
made the gourmet table.

Tin house nip nap

A large paw stretches,
needles extend
followed by a yawn
on the garage roof,
eyes barely half lit,
paler semi circles;
it is seriously heated.
Such luxury to be up here,
tail swinging over the edge,
swwisha swish swiisha

~dangle~

whilst next door’s livid
roving, barking nutcase
circles his garden range,
tries to leap up,
mouthing obsenities.
I admit, he does make it
halfway
but forget it pal,
your climbing abilities,

~dangle ~

leave a lot to be desired.