Muse

Silence is golden,

but I still can’t guess.

Tongues tied

beg answers from

a sleeping Muse;

an Oracle whose love

falls like dust

on our ears.

So speak

some nonsense of the heart;

your Midas touch

has dumbed

whatever passed

for language.

Fire Circle

These faces joined by fire,

Resemble each other in a way

That mocks proximity.

A brief chiaroscuro

Igniting our fates,

Caught in this ritual

Of flame and wonder.

.

Redeeming this patch

Of common ground,

Where truth holds out a burning hand

Against tomorrow.

Oracle

How many lamp posts are there in China?

Ask Google, you said.

Do you love me? / is sex is any good?/ are the neighbours watching?/ is two a crowd?

Ask Google.

Who’s Google? I said

Ask him!

Can he tell me who I am?

If you get the answer.

Can I Google myself if I don’t have a brain?

Can Google swim the Pacific?

Will Google save the human race?

Ask Google.

What’s a software clone, what’s a search engine, what’s a piece of string?

Do electrons know we exist?

Is the universe insane?

Did God invent sex?

Is Bill Gates a pop-up?

Do farts sound louder at high altitude?

Was the first elephant a mistake?

How many sods does it take to make sod’s law?

How many death squads does it take to change a light bulb?

Do you really want the answer? you shouted. Do you? Do you? Do you?

How should I know?

Then what are you asking me for?

Ask Google.

Facing Up

Spent the day on Facebook

Checking out the sites.
The past won’t feel the same
Without you.

Each image hides a clue,
Virtual or actual.
False or True,
Fate plays our tune.

I sometimes feel
The dark side
Of the mirror
Is where we live most.

So then, it’s no crime
To be out here again,
Wandering the streets
Of Cyberspace.

Message from Porlock

In 1797, Coleridge’s great romantic poem “Kubla Khan” is said to have been interrupted for all time  by “a person on business from Porlock”

There never was a Xanadu, as far as I can see,
Despite the great man’s ramblings as he ushered me in;
No explanation or offer of tea.
Poets, you think, would have better manners.


His papers were a mess:

Scribblings about dancing girls and caves of ice.
I inspected them, nonetheless,
A thorough waste of time,
And left without more ado,
Since I had come on business.

On the way home, I felt a lurch.
My horse in fast thick pants was breathing -
On account of a broken shoe -
Nothing more alarming.

Back at Porlock, at my inn,
No damsel with a dulcimer followed me in.
I slept in the same room as always.
No wailing troubled my sleep,
Not to my knowledge, at least.

It isn’t that kind of place.

Untold Story

For Stuart

A friend reminded me

Of a woman long ago

In Brighton days

We called the ‘saucepan lady’.

Unkempt in Kemp Town,

We’d watch her hurry by,

Pan tied on her head

With coloured scarf,

Defying our student theories.

If someone asked,

We’d smile and say her name,

As if we knew her.

When they found her dead,

Some said the pan was stuffed with cash,

Though personally, I wonder.

What we can’t take with us,

We leave behind

For others to ponder.

Me & You

You wake up

As Anthony or Cleopatra,

But appear quite normal on the bus.

At work, truth is waiting;

You scour emails for love.

Your greatness goes unnoticed

In the canteen at lunch.

In your dreams,

As all of us,

You are the one.

At night, you keep vigil,

Imagining a time,

When magic happened.