The Healing of the Rift

The Healing of the Rift

The age of migrations,
long before maps were made,
the tribes not yet nations,
they had not thought of trade.
On one side of the chasm,
they began to build a bridge,
but on the other they raised weapons,
and built a fortress on the ridge.
You can upturn an hour glass,
to watch the sand sift down and shift,
but you may wait forever
for the healing of the rift.

In this new age of migrations,
caused by poverty and war,
tensions between nations
makes every law unsure.
No feud is forgotten,
and always there’s the threat,
the sword will crack the cradle,
the fragile balance be upset.
You can shoulder your burden,
set out to do no more than drift,
and pray for a true treaty
to bring the healing of the rift.

Left with speculations,
you are puzzled by the lies,
with no illuminations,
to shed scales from your eyes.
At the mercy of leaders,
too obstinate to agree,
you must board a broken boat,
and take rough chances on the sea.
You feel stranded with no signs,
and a load you cannot lift.
All that remains is your dream
of the healing of the rift.

Glass Blower Blew Through

Glass blower blew through a transparent tube
to inflate a glassy dome,
and set it on a grey metal raft
to be his floating home.
On a canal of melted silver,
he steered it through a cubic maze,
coloured white, yellow, brown and blue,
his telescope raised to his eye,
the further more he saw,
the more horizons grew.
Gate by gate he found
through which his craft could pass,
until he got quite lost himself
amid the jumbled mass.

Captain Pelican stood tall on stilt like legs,
and filled his bill with fish.
His wish was to find a pearl,
and admire it in a dish.
When glass blower shunted by,
he eyed him with his eye,
and said: “Beware Molten Mountain,
worse than dark clouds
created by the sky.”
Glass blower gave his head a nod,
and mulled over his advice,
but as a lone adventurer,
he knew there was a price.
Towards black jet metropolis,
he paddled on and oared.
Like a beaver busy with his dam,
rubbed his tooth and smiled
as one who is never bored.
When he came to Molten Mountain,
he thought that he might melt,
but only his trouser button
was bursted by his belt.
He moored on an island,
more green than any herb,
and there we leave him in a peace
only a weasel would disturb.

These Oceans

These Oceans

I strayed into long ago,
somewhere in the east,
yes, the Orient.
Time moved slow,
like the wings of a cormorant.
I made my way to a stall
in a market square,
shiny stones drew me there.
The old jeweller said:
“Did you know,
this earth sits on a sapphire,
and by its glow the sky is blue?”
I told him of that I was unaware,
but what he said made sense of all of it.
Who I once was I never knew.
To where I was, I had lost the clue.
Among these turning wheels,
the truth we strain to know.
The cold chain we grasp,
to fly or fall when we let go.
There was I,
a sailor not long stepped ashore.
A strange harbour to explore,
haven for ships with scarlet sails.
I stayed in an inn,
slept without dream.
When I woke,
I felt I had the key to a paradise.
These oceans I would voyage,
accept what was shown to me,
till I knew I had found
what I was looking for,
that which my eyes alone would ever see.

Literature Is A Quiet Pleasure

Literature Is A Quiet Pleasure

Literature is a quiet pleasure,
written and read in the same silence
as painting and sculpture
whereas music by its nature
requires sound, to be listened to.
Cinema is an art of sound and picture.
When one more than an other,
I come to measure,
I prefer the art of prose and verse.
Literature is a quiet pleasure.

Round the Bean Stalk

Round the Bean Stalk

A man may wake
to watch his garden grow a bean stalk,
up and up, through clouds,
and think, such a giant plant
will make the neighbours talk,
better chop it down at the root
with an axe from the shed,
looks too big to eat with knife and fork,
and less dangerous dead.

Another man might admire it from his deck chair,
and water it in a drought.
and invite experts round to tell him
what it was about.
Yet another man might be like Jack
met in a fairy tale,
and climb up it through the clouds,
until his skin grew pale,
and may return with reports
of what he had seen,
or keep on climbing,
beyond the blue and green,
become the cause of wandering talk,
winding round the bean stalk

Gnat Woodlouse

Gnat Woodlouse

Gnat Woodlouse could not care a termite
about a maggot or an ant,
or for any other insect more obscure,
for which the evidence is scant,
and when the female primate owner of the house
turned the electric light bulb on at night,
he wriggled on the bathroom floor,
quite safe, for only spiders
gave female primates a fright,
but when he compared himself to a camel,
he felt such a small isopod fool,
for a camel who chews a cucumber
is the ultimate in cool.