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A Jacobs
Ladder
The backward
glance to where we have been Gives us the assurance of making
progress, Without which there can be no future. Personal history,
memory, Is what makes us what we are at this point in time. We can
change, not what we are, But what we would like to be. Our memory, our
past, Is merely the bottom block of a tower that has no limit. It only
requires a steady hand and the will, For us to build a Jacobs ladder
to the stars. |
Your
Presence
Your presence
is etched On the face of the space Where you were. |
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The
Throne
Moments of pure
meditation Whilst seated here, on the throne, Transcends all known
concentration And gurus perhaps better known. The stress and the strain
of this living Passes, with motions, away And the deep relief of such
giving Flushes ones problems away. |
Learning to Have
Fun
Wheeeeee! Twisting, turning, winding, Sinuous dive into
laughter. Doing it again and again. Banking and corkscrewing through
life. Learning to have fun. |
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Winter Time
Trial (Kenilworth)
Misty, muffled
figures pedal silently Out of the gloom and warm clouds of Muted words
appear and vanish In the frosty air.
Racers shed their winter wool
and shiver With cold and nerves. Watches are Consulted and the race
against the clock Commences over there.
Pungent liniments to make
legs strong mingle With warm body smells in the sharp, crisp Morning
scene. Shirts and towels and bikes And bags lie everywhere.
Every
minute, by the clock, a racer sprints Away. Arms are swung and feet are
stamped Against the nervous cold. Coffee sweetly steams A vacuum
flasks fanfare.
A nervous laugh, a slap on the back and They
are away. The sleep and cold are gone, Muscles, rhythmic, stretch and
thrust To make a time thats fair.
Hiss! go the tyres and rasps
the breath. Arms begin to ache and legs deaden. A marshal Shouts
encouragement and in the gut, Leaden starts despair.
From
miserys depths comes swinging, winging Hope, for off ahead a tiny
figure shows As, line unsteady, the minute-man loses Time beyond
repair.
Despairs transposed to him who lags, new Strength flows
to the legs, for now In sight the clock man waits, to end The white
lines glare.
Lungs slow down as the praises grow and dead Legs
find new life. The time is good but he, The winner, with modesty
immodest, Belittles the affair. |
Little Fred's
Nick-Nack Shop
Mornin, Fred. Yow orlright? They always
ask. Hey, bass, West Indian Rasta asks. You got
radio? Oh, gawd! Groans Fred, aloud. Another
bleedin nig-nog. White teeth flash, But in a grin,
Theys more acomin, bass. Id have your
lot On a banana boat, Fred mocks an angry scowl. The grin
widens, Do dey go To Dudley, bass? Ignore that
black Bastard, says Fred To the Traffic Warden. The Rasta
roars With laughter, Got to go, buy a radio. Come
back termorra, Ive got a crystal set Yow can afford. A cup
of tea Is passed to Yellow Peril, Two sugars, Alf? A
fisherman enters, Coarse of course. Carps tekkin,
Fred Tekkin what? Floated crust. He
says. Never sin nuthin like it. And Fred,
aglow, Himself a piscatorial legend Is lost to further
trade.
Every Friday, With a cheese roll And a bottle of
Mackie, I listened To Little Fred Insult his customers. Black,
brown, white All received the same Razor-tongued invective. And back
they came For more. Governments Could learn a lot From Little
Fred. |
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Love
Could I
articulate the perfume of a rose, Spell the texture of a flower's
petal, Speak the patterns of a hoar frost, Or express a single feather of
a Swallow's wing, Then could I tell you how much I love you. |
Praying
Had a quick
pray today, but You it seems were out. Down Your local were You? With Your
mates, Mohammed and that fat fella Buddha? I suppose it's all ambrosia
and skittles these days. Why aren't You there when I need You? Personally
I think You've gone away and nobody's noticed, Or you're lying down
somewhere After a night out with Your fellow deities. A sort of divine
hangover. That's the trouble with sorting out the world's problems, You
take a quick ambrosia to steady Your nerves And before You know it You're
sleeping it off again. I'll e-mail You next time, okay? |
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